


All We Can Do

by tuppenny



Series: Growing Together [6]
Category: Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: (but no one dies), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I'm going for it in chapter 3 kiddos so take a breath and steel yourselves (or skip it), Illnesses, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-01-04
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:31:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuppenny/pseuds/tuppenny
Summary: The newsies of Lower Manhattan may not be newsboys any longer, but they're still a family. And this family will always pull together when one of their own needs help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack bugs his wife and gets invited to a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one begins in Jan 1906. Kath and Jack have been married for 1 1/2 years, and they’re 23/24.

“Are ya done with that article yet, Ace?”

“No.” Katherine remained hunched over her typewriter, squinting in the glare of the late afternoon sun that was shining through the living room window. 

Jack sighed and dangled an arm off the edge of the couch, stretching to pull bits of fluff out of the rug covering the living room floor. “How about now?” 

“Still no,” Katherine said, without turning around. “And stop picking at the rug. We’ve already had to turn it once to hide that threadbare edge you created—we don’t have enough chairs to cover up another bald spot.”

“Bald spot,” Jack snickered. “As if the rug had hair.” He obliged her, though, and switched to staring at the ceiling with first his left eye closed, then the right, winking back and forth to watch the ceiling fan and light fixtures shift positions. This amused him for a few minutes, allowing Katherine to finish a couple more sentences of her piece on the deadly landslide in Haverstraw, but then he was back at it. “Hey, Ace?” 

She sighed. “What now?” 

“Why does stuff jump around when I look at it through just one eye an’ then the other?”

“Parallax,” she said, still staring at her work. “And,” she added under her breath, “If you don’t stop bugging me, Jack Kelly, then pretty soon you’ll be looking at everything through one eye, because the other is going to be swollen shut.”

All Jack caught of that was his name. “What’s that?”

Katherine growled in exasperation and spun around in her seat. “Jack! Just let me write this article!” 

Unfazed, Jack popped up into a sitting position and grinned at her over the back of the couch. “What if I type backwards from the end of the article an’ you type forwards from the start an’ then we meet in the middle? You’ll finish in half the time.” 

“In twice the time, more’s like,” she said, silently asking God to grant her the patience to deal with her impossible husband. “Please, Jack. You’ve been bothering me since the instant I walked through the door. Can’t you leave me alone for more than half a minute?” 

“But I’m bored,” Jack said, pushing out his lower lip and giving her his best puppy dog eyes. “Come play with me, Kittykins.”

Katherine rubbed her temples. “Ugh, why did Connie have to use that pet name in front of you.” 

Jack laughed and vaulted over the side of the couch. “I’m awfully glad she did.” He moved to Katherine’s side and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Come spend time with me, macushla,” he begged. “Folks’ll still have plenty of sad news to read tomorrow if you don’t finish this piece, an’ I promise you’ll have lots more fun with me than you will writing about mud.”

“Clay,” Katherine muttered absently.

“I’m more fun than clay, too,” Jack said, sinking to his knees in front of her. “An’ if you’d just set your article aside for half a second, then I’d prove it to you,” he said, pulling one of her hands to his face and kissing it tenderly. She smiled, and, encouraged, he took her index finger and began to suck it.

Katherine’s eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed in annoyance. “Jack! I told you—I have work to do. I don’t have time for this right now.” 

Jack made a noise of protest as she yanked her hand away from him, but, undeterred, he pushed up her skirts and started kissing his way up her thigh, his long eyelashes brushing against her sensitive skin, his hot mouth making her shiver and melt even as her sensible side urged her not to react. 

Katherine gritted her teeth. “John. Francis. Kelly. If you don’t stop right this minute, you are going to be in a world of trouble.”

Jack whined but pulled away. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and sat for a minute, gazing entreatingly at his beautiful wife. “Please, darlin’? Please?”

“Later. I have to finish this piece. And,” she continued, rising from her chair and cradling the typewriter to her chest, “Since I can’t trust you to behave this afternoon, I’m going to go finish it in the bedroom.” Jack’s expression perked up as if he were an eager puppy. “ _Alone_ ,” Katherine added. “With the door _locked_.” 

Jack deflated. “Sometimes I wish you weren’t so responsible.”

She rolled her eyes. “One of us has to be, and clearly today it’s not going to be you.” 

He bit back a smile. “You win this round, Ace.”

He saw her shoulders bounce a little in a stifled laugh as she walked away. “Patience is a virtue, Jack,” she said as she started down the hallway to the bedroom. “And I’ll make sure you’re rewarded richly for it. _Later_.” 

He chuckled and rose from the edge of the living room carpet. “I guess I’ll go make dinner, then.”

 

*

 

Jack had finished making dinner, eating his half of it, and doing the washing up (usually Katherine’s job, but he had nothing better to do, especially since she was still writing), and now he was padding down the hallway to bother his wife again. “Ace! How long is this article? Ya ain’t gotta write the whole paper yourself, ya know!”

There was no response, and he was taking a deep breath to start yelling again when there was a knock at the door. Grumbling a little, he turned around to go answer it. He’d barely taken two steps when the knock turned into insistent hammering, followed by, “Jackie! Jaaaaaackie? Jack! Ya in there or what?”

“Gimme more’n half a second ta get ta the door, Racer! Geez!” Jack flipped the locks and undid the chain before yanking the door open with a glare and ushering Race and Spot inside. “Ya know the neighbors hates it when ya hollers in the stairwell like that, why d’ya gotta make ‘em mad at us? I never makes ya wait long.”

“Waitin’ even an eyeblink is too long for this one,” Spot said gruffly. “If ya wants Race ta stop causin’ a scene in your buildin’, you’s gonna need ta learn how ta open the door afore we even gets here.”

Jack rolled his eyes and offered to take the boys’ coats. Race shook his head. “We ain’t stayin’, Jackie—we’s come ta take you out.”

“What?” 

“Longshoreman party. Down by the docks,” Spot explained, his arms crossed tightly across his chest and his voice stern. “Thought we’d see if ya wanted ta join.”

Race jumped in, reaching for Jack’s shoulder and shaking his friend affectionately. “Say yes, Jackie-- ‘s gonna be a real smasher, an’ ya ain’t been out in ages. Ya could use a night on the town!”

“Thanks, fellas, but ya know I ain’t much of a drinker, an’ Kath an’ me were gonna—”

“Take him!” Katherine’s voice echoed down the hallway. She hadn’t left the bedroom, but she’d opened the door enough to poke her head through and make determined shooing motions at her husband. “For the love of mercy, boys, make him go!” 

Jack frowned. “What happened to loving and cherishing me, huh?”

Katherine stuck out her tongue at him. “Tonight I’d rather love and cherish you from afar, husband dearest.” Jack pouted, and Katherine sighed. “Look, Jack. I’m swamped with work, as you well know, and as soon as Race and Spot leave, you’re just going to go back to being bored and driving me crazy. You’ll have a lot more fun out with them than you will here with me.” Her eyes twinkled as she added, “And, if you leave me alone long enough, then maybe tomorrow night I’ll be free to pick up where you left off this afternoon.”

A wolfish smile spread across Jack’s face. “Is that so, Mrs. Kelly?”

“It is indeed,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him.

Spot made a gagging noise. “So are ya comin’ or what?”

“He’s coming,” Katherine said firmly. “Stay out all night if you want, love—I really do have a lot of assignments to finish.”

Jack laughed. “I don’t think I’ve got the stamina in me for a whole night out.” 

“Oh, come on, Jackie,” Race said, elbowing Jack in the side. “All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.” 

Jack smacked Race on the back of the head. “Ya think I ain’t heard that one before?” Jack was smiling as he said it, though, and he went to pull on his winter outerwear. 

Race cheered and hopped from one foot to the other. “ ‘S gonna be a night ta remember, Jackie, I promise ya.” 

“Or not remember,” Spot said with a sly grin. “Walshy knows a guy, got a deal on a whole crate of the good stuff.”

Race cuffed Spot gently. “Aw, Spotty, ya know Jack’s basic’ly an altar boy when it comes ta alcohol. Leave him be.” 

Spot shrugged. “Fine, but I bets plenty of altar boys sneaks Communion wine. I know I would.”

“As if any priest in their right mind would let you be an altar boy,” Jack shot back. 

Spot laughed. “Fair. Ready for a helluva night, Kelly?”

“Sure,” Jack said, tucking the ends of his scarf into the top of his coat and pulling his wool cap just a little lower over his ears. “G’night then, love,” he called to the end of the hallway, where Katherine had already slipped back into the bedroom to continue typing. 

“Good night, dear heart,” she called back. 

Jack followed Spot and Race out the door and was just starting to lock the apartment behind him when the door flew back open.

“You didn’t kiss me before you left!” A breathless Katherine flung herself into Jack’s arms and pressed her lips firmly to his.

He closed his eyes and gripped her tightly, letting the kiss continue until Spot cleared his throat and harrumphed. “We’s got places ta be, Kelly. Let’s get a move on.”

Katherine pulled back, smiling, and she gave Jack another quick peck on the lips. “Have fun.”

He tucked a stray curl back behind her ear and gave her a wink. “I will. Happy writing.”

Still smiling, Katherine slipped back into the apartment, gave the boys a little wave, and locked the door behind her. 

“So can we go now or what?” Spot grumped.

“Yeah,” said Jack. “Lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
> A landslide occurred in Haverstraw, NY, on Jan 8, 1906, as a result of excavating too much clay. The landslide killed 20 people. Haverstraw is a little bit north of NYC, on the Hudson River.
> 
> Non-Historical Notes:
> 
> I wasn't planning on continuing this series past the wedding, but I got a lot of requests to keep on with it, so here we are. Fingers crossed that this wasn't a mistake...
> 
> This one isn't going to be as tightly focused on Jack & Kath as the previous ones, but they're still my main POV characters, so if they're why you read my work, never fear. :)
> 
> I also don't know how long it'll take me to update this one because guess who has like 400 pages of student papers, 40 student exams, and 10ish postdoc applications to finish in the next 8 days? Meeeeeeee (agh)! But anyway I've had this one kicking around in my head for like a month now, so here's the first little bit. I really hope you like it :O


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spot gets rip-roaringly drunk.

The night started off well enough. Jack always enjoyed painting the town red with his former second-in-command, and over the years Spot had grown from being an occasional antagonist and circumstantial ally to someone Jack saw as a genuine friend. It helped that Jack was no longer in charge of the Manhattan newsboys and that Spot had transitioned out of leading Brooklyn and into a career as a longshoreman down at the docks, of course, but both young men would freely admit that the main reason that they got along was Race. Jack had always been more than a little leery of Race’s friendship with the menacing boy on the other side of the East River, and Spot had needed years to warm up to the talkative dreamer who held Race’s loyalty, but eventually their mutual affection for the irrepressible Racetrack Higgins won out.

And, as Jack told Katherine one evening over supper, Spot wasn’t half bad; “Turns out we have a lot in common, Ace.” Katherine wasn’t as surprised by that as Jack thought she ought to have been, but then again, Katherine was hard to surprise. So was Spot.

In fact, it was nearly impossible to draw any expression at all out of the stoic Spot Conlon, which is why Jack got such a kick out of watching Spot get progressively drunker –and louder, and wilder, and more physical– as the night wore on. Jack never had any trouble finding his own brand of fun without alcohol, but with the display Spot was putting on, Jack didn’t even have to make an effort. 

“Get a load of your roommate,” Jack said to Race, elbowing his shorter friend in the ribs and pointing to a red-faced Spot, who was waving a bottle of beer around in his left hand and using his right hand to lead several fellow dockworkers in an off-key sea shanty. “I hopes for your sake he don’t perform like this at home; his voice is worse’n a squashed cat’s.” 

Race laughed. “Oh, my ears is usually safe—Spotty only sings when he’s good an’ hammered.” Race leaned back against a stack of shipping crates and smirked as he watched Spot stagger to grab another beer. “Oy, Spot!” He called, cupping his hands around his mouth to be heard over the din of shouting, singing longshoremen. “What’s wrong with the drink in your hand?”

“ ‘S on my shirt,” Spot slurred, gesturing to a large wet spot on his chest. “An’ that… that ain’t right, Racer!” He shook his head and frowned like a petulant toddler. “I… I don’t unnerstand, Racer, it don’t make no sense… My shirt ain’t thirsty, whassit doin’ drinkin’ my beer?”

Race snorted. “If ya stopped playin’ orchestra conductor with a full bottle in your hand then your shirt wouldn’t get so thirsty, kid.”

Spot nodded very seriously. “Right, right. Conductin’s thirsty work.” He thought for a second, dumped the rest of his beer on himself, and beamed at Race. “Shirt oughta be sat'sfied now,” he said proudly, fumbling for another full bottle. “So _this_ one— _this_ one’s all for me.” He wagged a finger at his chest and glared darkly. “Ya hear that, shirt? I ain’t sharin’ this time.” 

Jack burst out laughing. “How many have ya had, Spotty? You’s soused.”

Spot blinked slowly and tried to count his fingers, but they kept moving, making it an impossible task. “Gee, Jackie, I dunno.” He broke into a wide grin. “Not enough, though!” He turned back to the room and raised a fist in the air. “Who wants ta play pennies?” There was a loud answering cheer from Spot’s fellow dock workers, and he disappeared into the crowd. 

“Next step is dancin’,” Race commented, “But he’ll need at least a couple more ta get him there.” 

Jack raised his eyebrows and crossed his arms. “I’m willin’ ta wait around ta see that.” 

Race took a swig of the single beer he’d been nursing all night and gave Jack a wink. “Oh, it’s worth it, lemme tell ya. If ya can, ask him ta dance like the Russian sailors—he tries, but he ain’t got the legs for it. It’s a riot.”

“I’d pay ta see that,” Jack said. “An’ I’m countin’ on you ta make it happen.”

“I would,” Race said, “But he ain’t nearly sloshed enough yet, an’ I hafta split. Got a big race in the mornin’; need ta make sure I’m rested for it.”

“Ya ain’t even finished your beer,” Jack objected. “C’mon, Racer, stay until ya get Spot ta hop around a bit—I don’t think he’ll do it if I ask, but he always listens ta you.”

Race eyed the bottle in his hand, still half full, and thought for a moment. Then he sighed. “I’m sorry, Jackie, but I really do need ta head home. Wish I could stay out longer, but I really wants this car racin’ thing ta work out, ya know? An’ I drives better when I’m rested.”

Jack nodded. He’d driven a car only once before, when Race had invited him and Katherine to the practice track and let both of them test the 1904 Panhard 70 out on a straightaway. Still, even after only one go of it, he could see how driving was the sort of thing you’d want to be alert for. “No worries,” he said, clapping Race on the shoulder. “You head home, an’ I’ll make sure Spot gets back in one piece.”

“Thanks,” Race said, turning to look across the dock at his roommate, who was now telling off-color jokes to anyone within shouting range. Race smiled, a faint but tender expression that surfaced and fled so quickly that Jack wasn’t even sure he'd seen it. Race set down his drink and rewrapped his scarf around his neck. “I appreciate ya walkin’ him home. I’ll feel better knowin’ he ain’t stumblin’ back by himself tonight.” Race and Jack stood a minute in silence, watching their breath form hazy clouds and float away into the crisp night air.

“His work buddies wouldn’t let him do that,” Jack said.

“Mmm,” Race said noncommittally. He pulled a cigar out of a pocket in his coat, stuck it between his lips, and began rummaging around for his matchbox. “I’m glad you two gets along now, ya know.”

Jack punched Race in the shoulder. “Yeah, whatever. Go home, Racer.” 

“I’m goin’, I’m goin’,” Race protested, finally locating an unused match and lighting his cigar. “Say, Jackie, if you’s really gonna wait around until Spot dances then you’s gonna be here a while, so stay with us ‘steada goin’ home tonight, okay? Gonna be real late an’ real dark when the two of you is done here.”

Jack shrugged. “Kath said ta stay out anyway, so I guess I might as well.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “I hafta say, I’m glad you two got a couch. Lots better’n sleepin’ on your floor.” 

“You’s gone soft in your old age,” Race ribbed. “Used ta be you an’ me was grateful ta have anywheres at all ta sleep—floor included.” 

Jack gave a short bark of laughter. “Yeah, we was, but that don’t mean I wanna go back ta livin’ that way, ya knucklehead. Make up that couch for me or else.”

Race flashed a broad smile at his friend. “You got it, Kelly. See ya later.”

Jack nodded and watched Race disappear into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical notes: 
> 
> Thanks to Chloé for telling me about the drinking game of pennies (I don’t know if you’d say ‘let’s play pennies,’ but whatever), which, in her words, is “like early beer pong; you have to skip or flip a penny into a drink.”
> 
> Panhard 70—a racecar of the time that was used by several drivers who participated in the 1904 Vanderbilt Cup, an international car race that I had never heard of but that popped up when I was looking for period-appropriate racecar models.
> 
> Non-historical notes:
> 
> Well, my chapter estimates on this one were ALL wrong. Everything I've posted so far was supposed to be just the first 2/3 of the first chapter. Oops. So, even though I thought this was going to be a brief-ish story, it looks like this will actually end up being a fairly lengthy fic (probably of similar length to the others in this series. Creature of habit, I guess).
> 
> I hope you liked it! Comments etc are always appreciated! Happy Advent to those of you who observe that! <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things go south (to put it mildly).

It wasn’t actually that late by the time Jack and Spot made it back to the small but serviceable apartment that Spot and Race had been sharing for the last year or so, but it was late enough that Race was already asleep and Spot had had time to drink himself into a stupor. 

Jack practically had to haul Spot home, which wasn’t easy. Spot was short, sure, but the muscles he’d developed over years of working at the docks made him feel as heavy as a ton of bricks. Even with one of Spot’s arms draped around Jack’s shoulder and Jack’s arm around Spot’s waist, Spot was having real trouble staying upright. 

“See if I ever go anywheres with you again, Conlon,” Jack grumbled, dragging Spot another few feet as the shorter boy’s legs gave out from under him. Jack paused to take a breather and wipe the sweat from his brow before unlocking the front door to the tenement building and starting to lug Spot up the stairs. “Can’t ya at least _try_ ta move your feet, ya big idiot?”

Spot just drooled and laid his head on Jack’s shoulder.

Jack sighed and readjusted to pull Spot up to the next landing. Jack was exhausted by the time he made it up to the one-bedroom apartment and kicked the door open. Jack wasn’t familiar enough with the place to be able to navigate it in the dark, but luckily there was enough moonlight filtering through the dingy windows for him to find his way to the bedroom. He eased Spot off of his shoulders and onto the bed, where the former leader of Brooklyn promptly nestled his head into the pillow and smacked his lips sleepily. Jack didn’t bother trying to put Spot under the covers; Race had already hogged most of them, anyway. He did take off his friend’s shoes, though, placing them by the side of the bed before tiptoeing out to the living room and closing the bedroom door behind him.

Jack smiled to see that Race had actually made up the couch—after a fashion, at least. A thick blanket lay folded on one of the couch cushions, and Race had stuffed some extra clothes into a pillowcase for Jack’s sleeping comfort. Jack was so tired he could’ve fallen asleep just about anywhere, makeshift pillow or not. He only barely managed to slip off his own shoes before collapsing onto the couch and drifting off, still wearing his winter coat.

 

*

 

The first thing Jack registered upon waking was that it was far too dark for him to be up. The second thing was that the apartment was no longer quiet. He lifted his head off the lumpy pillow to hear Race yelling.

“Spot! What the hell? Get up and go to the bathroom, Spot! Or at least the trashcan!” 

This was followed by pitiful moaning, presumably from Spot. Jack rubbed his forehead in a futile attempt to rid himself of the pounding headache he always got when he didn’t get enough sleep, and then he shuffled to the bedroom. “Whassa matter, Race?” He said, still half-asleep and leaning on the door frame.

Race was standing by the foot of the bed, his close-cropped curls mussed from sleep. “Spot puked on the floor!”

Jack winced as he caught a whiff of the acrid smell of bile. “Geez, Spotty.”

Spot groaned and threw up again before thudding back onto the mattress.

Race growled. “I don’t care how bad ya feel, Spot—this ain’t your first rodeo with bein’ drunk, ya knows ya gotta get out of bed an’ hurl somewhere else. Get up.”

Spot tried to respond, but all he succeeded in doing was covering the side of the bed in vomit. He didn’t even try to lift himself up off the bed and out of his mess this time; he simply lay there, panting, his face screwed up in pain.

Jack eyed Spot and then shot a worried look at Race. “Is this normal for him? I’s seen plenty of fellas drunk, but I ain’t never seen no one look so…” He trailed off and gestured at the tough-as-nails Spot, who was curled up in the fetal position and trembling uncontrollably.

Race tried to run a hand through his hair, but it got snagged in his curls halfway through. “I…” He watched Spot vomit again and then bit his lip. “No. No, it ain’t. He’s norm’ly real good at holdin’ his liquor an’ at dealin’ with things himself if he overdid it.” He turned his head to meet Jack’s gaze, which meant that Jack saw the exact moment that Race shifted from annoyance to panic. Race’s voice spiked half an octave. “This ain’t normal at all. Somethin’s wrong. Somethin’s wrong, Jack, somethin’s wrong with Spot!”

Jack’s eyes flicked back to Spot, who was staring mutely back from the soiled bed. A tear slid down Spot’s cheek and then he turned his head to retch again, and again, and again. 

“Jack!” Race wailed. “Jack, what do we _do_?” Without waiting for an answer, he dashed to Spot’s side, heedless of the mess. He knelt by the bed and reached for one of Spot’s trembling hands. “Oh, _Spot_ ,” he said, his voice cracking. “Spot, Spotty, listen ta me, Spotty, it’s gonna be okay, okay? Hang on, okay? We’s gonna figure this out.” He quickly wet his index and middle fingers with saliva and moved to clean some of the vomit off of Spot’s cheek. “ ‘S okay, Spotty,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’m gonna take care of ya. ‘S okay.”

Spot just whimpered and closed his eyes. 

Race shot a desperate look at Jack. “Jack, help!”

Jack blinked, eyes darting from a frantic Race to a helpless Spot. He brushed at his nose to give himself a second to think and then sprang into action. “Okay, Racetrack. Spot. ‘S gonna be fine. You two sit tight, I’m gonna go get us a doctor.” Race nodded and gripped Spot’s hand even tighter. Jack clapped Race on the back and then ran out of the apartment, not even bothering to put his shoes back on. He clattered down the wooden stairs so fast that he didn’t even wince when he felt a splinter jam into the pad of his heel. He knew he’d seen a public phone on the way up, but for heaven’s sakes, which landing was it on? He whipped around the next turn in the staircase to see a telephone sitting on a rickety table right in front of him. He grabbed for it so fast that he knocked the receiver over and had to waste precious seconds scrabbling for the device, but eventually he’d placed the call and was waiting for someone to respond. 

Jack had never called an ambulance before, but he assumed they’d come quicker if they thought he was someone with enough money to pay for the service. Which… oh, wait, he was now, actually. But he knew that wasn’t obvious from the thick accent he always slipped back into when his emotions were running high. It wasn't that Jack was ashamed of his past or of how he’d been taught to speak; he wasn’t, not at all. He was, however, a realist, and he had long since learned that fancy English greased the wheels. Fancy English made people take you seriously. Fancy English got things done faster. And Spot needed help _fast_. 

So, when the operator picked up, Jack put on his best ‘talking to the Pulitzers’ voice. “Hello? Yes? Yes, my friend’s taken very ill, and I need you to send an ambulance. Right away. Yes. Yes. We’re on the fifth floor, and…” He paused. What on earth was Race’s address? He thought back to the walk here with Spot, how they’d taken two streets up, one street over, three streets up… oh, right, he had it now. Thank heavens for the Manhattan grid system. Jack rattled off the address for the emergency services operator and then hung up with a click before racing downstairs to wait outside for the ambulance to arrive. He was going to usher them in and make sure they got to the right apartment as quickly as possible—no way was he letting Spot suffer a moment longer than necessary.

Jack’s feet felt like blocks of ice by the time the ambulance pulled up. “This way, and please hurry,” he barked, leading the orderlies upstairs. The white-smocked men snapped into action as soon as Jack pushed them into the tiny apartment bedroom, where Race was still crouched on the floor, holding Spot’s hand while Spot retched and gasped and shook. Two of them readied a stretcher for Spot while the third tried to move Race out of the way in order to maneuver Spot off of the bed.

Race refused to budge. 

“You need to move now, sir,” the third orderly said. Race squeezed his eyes shut and gripped Spot even tighter. “We need to get your friend on this stretcher and to the hospital. You have to move.” Race muttered something indistinct and shook his head violently.

“Racer,” Jack said softly, moving to the bedside and laying a hand on Race’s back. “Come stand over here with me for just a minute. These men are going to help Spot, but they can’t help him here. Let them put him on the stretcher so they can get him to the hospital, okay? It’ll only take a moment.” 

Race shuddered and looked up at Jack with tears in his eyes. 

“Come on now, Racer, let these men do their jobs. They’re here to help.” Jack held his hand out to Race, who reluctantly took it and let Jack pull him to his feet. As soon as Race was out of the way, the third orderly slid his arms under Spot’s limp body and shifted him onto the stretcher. Race moved to dart right back to Spot’s side, but the emergency responders were already out the door and sprinting down the stairs. 

Race sprinted after them; Jack paused just long enough to grab his shoes, Race’s shoes, and an extra coat before clattering downstairs himself. He dashed out the door of the tenement building just in time to see the orderlies loading Spot into the back of the ambulance and Race frantically trying to push his way in after Spot. 

The third orderly was strong-arming Race, though, giving the other two time to settle Spot in the back and keeping Race from vaulting into the vehicle. “You can’t be here, sir, I’m sorry. Family only. You can follow along after.”

Race shrieked. “No! You’s gotta let me in, he’s my brother, ya can’t just— _no_!” He began to whale on the orderly, who was clearly used to dealing with hysterical members of the public. He defended himself aptly, but Race was quick enough to land a few punches. At this, Jack startled into motion and ran forward, pinning Race’s arms and dragging him away from the ambulance. The orderly nodded his thanks to Jack, backed calmly into the car, and shut the doors behind him. 

Race howled as the doors shut and the ambulance started away, and then he twisted in Jack’s arms to begin pummeling his friend. “What the hell, Jack? What the _hell_! Why’d you—I hate you, I _hate_ you!”

Jack let Race punch him for a minute or so, moving to protect himself only when Race threatened to hit his face. Jack figured that his chest and arms were fair game, though. Let Race get some of this out of his system, then try to reason with him. Race began to hyperventilate even as he threw punch after punch, even as he screamed in rage and fear, and finally Jack had had enough. He reached out and easily grabbed the smaller boy’s forearms, locking his friend in place. 

“Racer. Breathe.” Race looked wildly at Jack, his pupils dilated, his stare completely unfocused. “ _Racetrack._ Breathe. Come on. One, two, three, four, in, one two, three, four, out.”

Race shook his head, blinked rapidly, and finally began to follow Jack’s count. Once he’d stopped struggling and choking quite so much, Jack let him go. 

“I’m calling us a cab,” Jack said. “We’ll be right behind Spot, get to the hospital not even a minute after he does. Okay?”

Race nodded, wrapping his arms around himself and beginning to shiver in the frigid January air.

“Okay.” Jack gave a quick nod and handed Race the coat he’d grabbed from upstairs. “I’m gonna go make that call, and I’ll be right back. Do I need ta take ya with me, or can I trust ya ta stay here an’ wait for me?”

Race blinked. 

“Racer?”

Race swallowed.

“Racer.”

Race pressed his hands over his eyes. “I’ll wait,” he croaked.

“Okay. Gimme five minutes.” It didn’t take long to secure a cab, but Jack was still half certain that Race would be gone by the time he returned. His shoulders sagged in relief when he exited the building to see Race still standing out in the snow, shoeless, holding the coat that Jack had handed him a few minutes before. 

By the time Jack had helped Race put on his coat and slipped Race’s bare feet into his sturdy winter boots, the cab had arrived. Jack nodded to the cabbie and gave the address of the hospital before opening the car door and easing Race inside. The car started with a lurch as soon as Jack slammed the door behind him, making Race jump. Jack laid a hand on his friend’s arm and turned Race’s face to look at him instead of letting him stare blankly at the interior of the car. 

“It’s going to be okay, Race,” he said softly, pulling Race into a hug. “It’s gonna be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NYC did have automobile ambulances back then—this service started in 1900. I don't know if the paramedics were called paramedics or orderlies or what back then, and I didn't feel like googling to find out. I also don't know if only family would've been allowed to ride in the back of the ambulance (maybe not even family was allowed in), but whatever, it's what I needed for dramatic purposes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack finds out what's wrong with Spot.

Race didn’t even wait for the taxi to come to a complete stop before yanking the door open, springing from the cab, and rushing in through the double doors of Roosevelt Hospital. Jack paid the cabbie –overpaid, probably, because he didn’t want to leave Race alone for the time it would take to count out the correct change– and dashed after Race.

Despite his hurry, Jack paused at the threshold of the hospital and allowed himself half a breath to steel his nerves. He’d studiously avoided this building since January of 1900, when he’d spent an entire day frantically searching for an injured Katherine in every hospital in Lower Manhattan. With a shudder, Jack remembered exactly how he’d felt back then—he’d just about lost it by the time he’d made it to Roosevelt Hospital without a sign of her, terrified that she was dead or dying, terrified that he’d never see her again, terrified that he’d have to return to living without her. And now, even knowing that Katherine was fine, that all of that had happened ages ago, that in the intervening years he’d found her and loved her and married her, he felt a little spark of fear as he entered the hospital and heard his snow-sprinkled boots squeaking on the tiled floor.

The hospital looked exactly the same as it had back then, back when he’d been scared, so scared, scared out of his mind that he’d lost her forever… and that was when he’d known her for all of five months. 

Race had known Spot for more than nine years.

Jack brushed that thought aside and picked up his pace. If he let himself empathize fully with Race then he’d fall apart, too, and that wouldn’t help anyone. _Compartmentalize it, Kelly. Find Race and see what he needs._

It wasn’t hard to locate the impulsive Racetrack Higgins—Jack could hear shouts and the sounds of a scuffle echoing down the hallway. “Race!” He called, turning the corner to see his friend shoving and screaming at yet another white-smocked orderly. “ _Race_ ,” he snapped, running over to drag Race away from the hospital employee. “Cut it out. Ya can’t see Spot if you’s been tossed outta the buildin’.”

Race was oblivious. Even wrapped securely in Jack’s strong arms, he kept shouting profanities at everyone and no one, demanding answers, begging to see Spot, cursing the hospital staff for not letting him onto the ward where Spot was being treated.

“Hey there, Racer. Hey, hey,” Jack said, tugging Race in tighter as Race tried to twist out of Jack’s grip. “Breathe with me, okay?”

Livid, Race turned around and spat in Jack’s face.

Jack’s eyes narrowed and he freed a hand to slap Race across the cheek. “Race. _Stop_ it.”

Race froze, stunned by the contact.

Jack took advantage of Race’s momentary stillness to muscle him over to a row of chairs in the hallway. “ _Race_ ,” Jack said, the hardness of his voice contrasting with the sympathy in his eyes. “Ya hafta pull it together, kid. Ya ain’t gonna do no one any good by gettin’ kicked outta the hospital.” He forced Race down into a chair and pressed his hands on Race’s shoulders to make sure that Race stayed seated. “I knows you’s hurtin’, Anthony, I _knows_ that, but you’s gotta pull yourself together. Just a little bit, okay? Just a little bit, just so’s ya don’t hurt yourself more.” He knelt down in front of Race to look into his friend’s eyes. “Look, kid. I’m gonna stay with ya as long’s I need to. Ya ain’t alone. You’s gonna be okay, an’ so’s Spot. He’s the toughest guy I know, an’ remember that I ran with them Five Pointers for months. So do whatcha need to do ta process this, but if that involves yellin’ at an’ hittin’ someone, then ya gots ta pick people who ain’t on the hospital staff. Got it?”

Race squeezed his eyes shut and nodded slowly.

“Okay, then,” Jack said. “Now, if I stops holdin’ ya in this chair, is ya gonna stay put?”

Race nodded again.

“Good. Now I’m gonna go find out what’s goin’ on, an’ soon’s I do, I’m gonna come right back an’ tell ya. But ya hafta stay here so’s I can find ya. That clear?”

“Yeah,” Race mumbled, scrubbing at his face with a trembling hand.

Jack scanned Race’s face and then patted the young man’s thigh. “Alright. Stay put, Racer. I’ll be back soon’s I hear anythin’. I promise.” Jack straightened and gently ruffled Race’s rumpled curls before heading back up the hallway to the information desk. He wasn’t sure that leaving Race alone was a good idea, but he didn’t really have a choice, because there was no way he wanted Race hearing the unfiltered update on Spot. Despite what Jack had just said, he was far from sure that Spot would be okay. And he was even less sure that Race would be. 

_Enough, Jack. Stop getting ahead of yourself. Find out what’s going on with Spot and then worry about what’s next._

It took nearly an hour for Jack to sweet-talk the information desk attendant into tracking down someone who worked in hospital admissions, wheedle them into confirming that someone matching Spot’s description had been admitted, and corner the attending physician on Spot’s floor for a full update. Eyeing the doctor warily, Jack decided that absurd politeness, easy confidence, and a fancy voice would be the best way to be taken seriously and get what he wanted.

“Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me, Dr. … Lane,” he said, eyes flicking to the man’s nametag. “I’m sure you can understand how concerned I am about Sp— Mr. Conlon. How is he? Is he in a condition to see visitors?”

The doctor adjusted the stethoscope around his neck and offered his hand to Jack to shake. 

 _A-ha,_ Jack thought, _He likes me. I_ _guessed right_. 

Dr. Lane met Jack’s eyes with a solemn expression. “I’m afraid I have mixed news for you, sir.”

Jack felt his heart skip a beat. “Jack. Jack Kelly.”

The doctor nodded. “Well, Mr. Kelly, your friend is indeed very ill. You did the right thing by bringing him in as quickly as you did, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll survive this, and I’d advise waiting to visit until he’s stabilized. We’ve made him as comfortable as possible and are attempting to keep him hydrated, but besides keeping an eye on him and keeping him clean, there’s really not much we can do for this sort of thing.” 

“What sort of thing?” Jack asked, somehow managing to keep his voice steady.

“Wood alcohol poisoning,” the doctor replied.

“Wood—what?” Jack brushed at his nose. “I’m sorry?”

“Methyl alcohol,” the doctor said, as if that explained anything. “It looks and tastes just like ordinary alcohol, but the effects can be devastating.”

“How do you know that’s what this is? How do you know he’s not just stumbling drunk?” Jack was beginning to lose his cool a little bit. Why was this man beating around the bush? Just tell him, goshdarnit, tell him what he needed to know to protect Race. 

“The symptoms of methyl alcohol poisoning are exactly like those of being drunk on normal alcohol at first, but then they generally intensify, as happened with Mr. Conlon. Vomiting, dizziness, headaches, loss of motor control, tremors, blurred vision. Depending on the quantity imbibed and the constitution of the patient, there is the potential for blindness, paralysis, coma, and death.”  

Jack swallowed hard. “And when will you know whether… whether or not he’s going to make it?” 

The doctor frowned in thought. “It’s difficult to say. A few days, perhaps. It’s very difficult to predict how any one person is going to react to something like this, and a lot depends on how much methyl alcohol was ingested. I don’t suppose that’s something you’d be able to guess at, would you?” 

Jack shook his head. “He drank a lot last night, but I wasn’t keeping track.”

Dr. Lane sighed. “That’s normally the way of it in these cases. Very uncertain prognosis. I’m sorry I can’t be more definite.” 

“That’s… that’s all right,” Jack managed. “I appreciate your honesty.” He ran his hand through his hair and tried to steady his breathing. “And when are visiting hours?” 

“Not until this afternoon. Mr. Conlon might not be well enough to receive anyone then, of course, but even if he is, the ward isn’t open until two.” 

“Okay. Thank you.” Jack rolled his shoulders and asked, “I, uh… Dr. Lane, do you think it would be possible to avoid telling this to the friend who accompanied me here? He’s had a difficult winter, and I don’t want to upset him unnecessarily. Maybe ask the nurses not to mention any specifics about Mr. Conlon in his presence?”

The doctor shrugged. “Fine by me.”

“Thank you.” Jack’s shoulders sagged in relief. He didn’t see the point in telling Race the whole story, not when things were so up in the air. Maybe things would work out alright, in which case Race would have worried for nothing, and if they didn’t, then Race could deal with it then. When it happened. When it was real. For now, Spot's... Spot’s death was purely hypothetical, and Jack hoped to heaven that it would stay that way. Besides, Race was already so frantic that Jack couldn’t see how bad news would help. No, Jack was not going to tell Race the full truth. And he wasn’t going to feel even the least bit guilty about that.

Jack wound his way through the hospital hallways and back to Race. “Hey there, kiddo,” he whispered as he sat down next to his friend, who’d fallen asleep in the uncomfortable hospital chair.

Race groaned and stirred, his eyes blinking blearily open. “Whassat?”

“It’s Jack, Racer. Sorry I was gone so long. Took a while ta find the doctor an’ get the lowdown on Spot.”

Race snapped upright, the events of the night flooding back to him. “Is he okay? Can I see him?” 

“The doctor said he’s comfy an’ they’re taking good care of him, but he’s still too poorly to visit right now.” Race’s face fell. “He might be up to it this afternoon, though. They’ll let us know.”

Race nodded and tugged his fingers through his hair. “Okay. Okay. That’s… that’s okay. Okay.” He slumped back in the chair, flinging an arm over his eyes. “What do I _do_ , Jackie? I feel like… It's... I can’t…” He shot upright and burst out, “How’m I s’posed ta get _through_ this?”

Jack gripped Race’s forearm. “Take it an hour at a time, Racer. Ya can’t go through the what-ifs that ain’t even happened yet.”

Race deflated. “I… Yeah. I dunno, Jackie, I… All I wanna do is sit here, but then if I thinks about doin’ that all day then I gets all tense an’ shaky.”

Jack turned his wrist to check his watch. “It ain’t even six yet; ya could still make your race if ya wanted to.”

Race’s eyes widened. “I gotta stay here for Spotty. I can’t just leave ‘im all alone.”

“Hey, I’ll be here, he ain’t gonna be alone. An’ besides, ya can’t see him now, anyway. The race won’t take long, will it? It’s somethin’ ya enjoy, it’ll take your mind offa things, an’ by the time ya get back Spot might be feelin’ better enough for you ta visit. They won’t let no one back on the ward until two, so might as well stay busy until then, yeah?” 

“I… I guess,” Race said doubtfully. He bit his lip. “I can’t stand the thought of missin’ any news on him, though. What if… what if somethin’ happens ta him while I’m gone?” 

Jack rubbed his forehead. “Honestly, Racer, the way I sees it, it don’t make no difference where ya is this mornin’. Spot’s outta reach right now, an’ findin’ somethin’ out about him an hour later than it happened ain’t gonna change the outcome.”

Race dropped his head and stared at his hands. “I hates feelin’ so helpless, Jackie.” 

“Me, too, kiddo.” Jack leaned over the arm of the chair and pulled Race to him in a bear hug. “Spot’s a fighter, always has been. An’ this fight might be tougher than most, but I still ain’t gonna bet against him. Are you?”

“No,” Race snuffled, rubbing at his nose. “No, I ain’t.”

“Good. Now, ya don’t have ta go drive in that race, but ya needs ta get outta this hospital. Ya’s gonna drive both of us crazy sittin’ there with nothin’ ta do but fret.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Race said. He sat there for a moment, debating with himself. “Jackie, I just… I... whad’ya think Spot would want me ta do?”

“You know ‘im better’n I do,” Jack said with a shrug, “But I do know that he’d hate ta see ya worryin’ over him like this.”

Race rubbed at the back of his neck and let out a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah. Spot hates anyone actin’ diff’rent on account of him.”

Jack smiled faintly and gave Race the quiet he needed to think. Eventually, Race shook his head, his curls bouncing wanly, and said, “Hell, Jackie. I’m gonna go race that car.”

“Attaboy, Racer.” Jack clapped Race on the shoulder and grinned. “I’m gonna go call a co-pilot up for you. Sit tight.”

Race gave Jack a confused look but did as he was told, and in half an hour, Elmer bounced through the doorway and up to Race’s side. “I hear ya’s lookin’ fer a first-rate racin’ pal, yeah?” 

Race shot a glance at Jack, who smiled and said, “Elmer may not be the best mechanic we know, but he’s real even-tempered, an’ I thought that was more important today.”

Race gave a huff of a laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, you’s prob’ly right.” He stood and offered Elmer his hand. “Welcome aboard, Elmer. Thanks f’r joinin’ the team on such short notice.”

“My pleasure, Racer!” Elmer’s dark eyes twinkled, and he was practically floating with excitement. “Can’t wait ta see ya in action from the best seat in the house.” 

Race managed to find a smile for his enthusiastic friend and pulled him in for a hug. “Thanks, kid,” he said, his voice a little raw.

Jack gave them a second and then started to push them both toward the hospital exit, slipping a few dollars into Elmer’s pocket. “Go on, now. Eat breakfast afore ya gets ta the racetrack, alright? Racin’ on an empty stomach’s no good.”

“I’ll say!” Elmer agreed. “C’mon, Racer, I wants ta get there in plenty of time for you ta show me everythin’!”

Jack watched the two of them leave the hospital, the joyful Elmer buoying Race along. Elmer had been the right choice, for sure. He’d keep Race from getting into any nasty scrapes and provide just the right amount of distraction. Sighing, Jack rubbed his temples; his sleep headache had only gotten worse over the course of the morning, and now it was threatening to devolve into a full-fledged migraine. He didn’t have time for that; he had a million things to organize in order to make sure Race always had someone at his side over the next few days. Jack winced as a stab of pain radiated behind his eyes, causing ‘deal with this headache’ to shoot to the top of his to-do list. Surely he could beg some aspirin off of someone around here? It oughtn’t to be that hard; he was in a hospital, after all. He started scanning the hallways for nurses and decided aspirin first, scalding hot coffee second, and then—then he was going to call Kath.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't tell you how many sites and stories on methyl alcohol poisoning I've been checking out over the last... month and a half. I hope whoever is spying on me doesn't think I'm trying to kill anyone. Anyway, the point of telling you all that was to say that the details are accurate. (And now that you know what's happened to Spot, you can go google it and worry about what happens to him next. :P )
> 
> Bayer discovered/invented/whatevered aspirin and began selling it in 1899. I have toured a Bayer factory and they are very, very proud of their aspirin, let me tell you. 
> 
> *
> 
> Soooo there you go, no real answers or reassurance for you worried readers, but... at least you're one chapter closer to getting answers? Silver linings, folks. ;) I hope you liked it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I back off on the angst ever so slightly.

Race phoned the hospital as soon as he’d finished the last lap (he’d come in a respectable third, which pleased the team owner), and as soon as Jack finished saying that Spot would probably be up to having visitors that afternoon, he was off like a shot back to Manhattan. Elmer wanted to stay for the ribbon ceremony, seeing as he’d never won anything important in his life, but he knew better than to bring it up or, worse, to wait around and accept the ribbon without Race. Jack had made it quite clear that he was trusting Elmer with something big by putting him on Race-watching duty, and there was no way Elmer was going to disappoint Jack.

So back to Manhattan they went, zipping along in the motorcar that Race had wheedled his boss into loaning him for the day.

“Hey, uh, Race—ain’t that—ain’t that a stoplight—ooh!” Elmer yelped, covering his eyes as Race shot through an intersection just before the cross-traffic got going. He whipped his newsie cap off of his head and spent the rest of the trip hiding behind his hat, muttering darkly about reckless drivers and squeaking whenever Race took a turn on two wheels or screeched to a stop.

“We’s here, Elmer—ya can stop shakin’ like a baby deer now,” Race said, smacking Elmer on the back of the head as he parked by the hospital.

“Thank you, Lord, for deliverin’ me from the clutches of this madman, an’ I promise I’ll go ta church this Sunday,” Elmer croaked, wobbling out of the car.

Race snorted and dashed across the street, leaving Elmer to groan and try his level best to catch up.

Jack was waiting outside the hospital, arms folded, wool cap pulled down low so as to shield him from as much of the January weather as possible. Race ran straight to him. 

“Ya seen him yet, Jackie? Any news?”

“No ta both of those questions. Hey, don’t look at me like that—it ain’t even two yet, no way I coulda seen him already.” Jack cast a quizzical look at Elmer, who was standing miserably behind Race, still trembling a little bit. “Whad’ya do ta Elmer, hey?” Race shrugged innocently, and Jack’s eyes narrowed. He turned to Elmer. “Ya didn’t let him _drive_ the two of you back here, didja?”

Elmer whimpered and balled his hands under his armpits. “It was _awful_ , Jackie, just _awful_.” He shook his head and glared at Race. “Kid’s a maniac. I ain’t never been so glad ta get my feet back onta these stinkin’ streets.” 

“Yeah, well, this maniac came in third with no crashes t’day, thanks very much, an’ now he wants ta see his pal, so can we cut the chitchat an’ get goin’?”

“It’s only half past one,” Elmer said faintly. “Lord have mercy, Racer, ya coulda _walked_ back here an’ still made it on time.” Race rolled his eyes and marched into the building, leaving a shell-shocked Elmer with a secretly amused Jack. “Race-watchin’ duty is hard, Boss,” he said simply.

“ ‘S a full-time job,” Jack agreed. “Speakin’ of which, we gotta go; he’s been outta our sight for too long already.”

The boys found Race fidgeting by the locked ward doors, waiting for the stern nurse stationed outside to finally let him in to see Spot. The next half hour seemed interminably long; Race asked Jack what time it was every thirty seconds, Jack was too tired to keep up much of a conversation, and Elmer was too upset to string more than a couple of sentences together (not that Elmer was angry at Race, because he wasn’t; he understood why Race was being so cavalier about his own life at the moment, he got that, he just… wasn’t happy that Race had been cavalier about Elmer’s life, too). 

Finally, though, the nurse rose from her wooden chair and fished a ring of keys out of her pocket. A line of family members had long since gathered behind the three former newsies, anxious to see their own relatives, but Race had made sure that no one so much as thought of entering the ward before he did. As soon as the doors were unlocked, he barreled through them, looking frantically for Spot. Jack stopped to ask the nurse which bed was Spot’s, though, and softly called out to Race to point him in the right direction. “Third from the back left, Racer.”

Race nodded and sprinted to the end of the room. He slowed before he made it all the way there, though, suddenly uncertain about whether or not he wanted to pull back the curtain surrounding Spot’s bed. What if Spot was… what if he… maybe it was better not knowing? Maybe… maybe he wasn’t ready for this after all, maybe he should just… Then he heard Spot cough, and he was through the curtains and by Spot’s side in an instant.

“Spotty?” He whispered, bending over the side of the bed and brushing a shock of black hair back from Spot’s forehead.

Spot was asleep, his face drained of all color and his arms twitching above the coverlet. He was clearly unwell, but at least he was alive. At least he was breathing. At least he still looked like Spot.

Race snuck a look around to make sure no one else had made it to the back of the room yet and then pressed a hurried kiss to Spot’s temple. “I’s here now, Spotty. ‘S me, your Racer,” he said softly. “Ya ain’t alone, okay? I’s right here.”

Jack and Elmer stepped around the side of the curtain moments later. Jack had shoved one hand deep into the pocket of his woolen pants, while the other was fiddling uncertainly with the brim of his cap. Elmer’s face was solemn, and he was biting fiercely at the underside of his lip so as not to let any unwanted emotions escape.

Jack cleared his throat. “He looks better’n he did this morning, doncha think?”

Race nodded, his eyes moist. “Yeah. Lots better.” 

Elmer shifted his weight from one foot to another and then shuffled up to the bed to lay a hand on Race’s back. “He’s gonna pull through. He’ll bounce right back, you’ll see.” 

Race nodded again, rubbing the back of his hand across his eyes and turning his head to the wall.

Jack brushed at his nose. “Ya want we should leave you two alone for a bit, Race?”

“Please,” Race said, his voice cracking.

“Okay. Elmer’n me’ll be out in the hall, then. You wanna send a nurse ta come get us when you’s ready, or just have us come in a half hour or so?”

“Half hour oughta be good,” Race said, his voice growing ever-thicker. 

“Kay,” Jack said. “C’mon, Elmer. They’s got halfway decent coffee here; lemme spot you a cup.”

 

*

 

When Jack and Elmer came back in, Spot was awake. He was propped up by several pillows, groggy and pale and looking like death warmed over, but he was most definitely awake. Both boys broke into huge grins and raced to the bedside. 

“Spot!” Elmer chirped. “Ya look great!”

“Pffft,” Spot grumbled.

Elmer rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. “Well, ya look better’n I thought ya would, anyway.”

“Hmmph,” said Spot. His hands were still trembling and he looked like he could topple out of bed at any minute, but Jack figured that, all things considered, Elmer was right—Spot looked great. Or at least better than Jack had expected.

Race looked up at Jack and Elmer and gave a wobbly smile. “Same old Spot.”

Jack laughed and pulled up a chair. “Yup. Ain’t much’ll get our Spotty down.”

Spot closed his eyes and leaned back against the pillows, too exhausted to contribute anything else to the conversation.

“Sure is good ta see ya awake,” Elmer said, patting the mattress. Jack raised an eyebrow— _the mattress, Elmer? Really?_ But Elmer wasn’t fazed; even as weak and ill as Spot was, no way was Elmer risking getting close enough to be punched by the former leader of Brooklyn.

An orderly poked his head around the curtain and took stock of the situation. “He’s up, then?”

Race nodded.

“Good,” said the orderly. “I need to take some bloodwork.” None of the boys was sure what this meant, but when the orderly pulled out a needle and a couple of glass vials, they got the idea pretty quickly. “This is going to sting a bit, Mr. Conlon,” the man said, swabbing Spot’s finger.

Spot winced as the man pricked his finger, and Elmer had to squeeze his eyes shut and turn away from the scene.

Race reached to hold Spot’s other hand and gripped it firmly. “Ya’s doin’ so good, Spotty, so good.” Spot grunted. “‘S okay, you’s almost done now. Hang in there,” Race said, rubbing a rough thumb over Spot’s work-scarred palm.

The orderly frowned and stood. “I see we’ve got a couple of confirmed bachelors here,” he said, his voice dripping with disgust. He held the vial of blood out in front of him like it was toxic and swept away, leaving Spot’s finger unbandaged. 

Race’s face turned scarlet, and he dropped Spot’s hand like it was a hot potato. “Jackie?” He squeaked. “Jackie, they—that man, he—” Race swallowed hard, unable to continue. He looked down at Spot, who had somehow managed to fall back asleep in the ten seconds since the orderly had drawn his blood. Elmer’s eyes flicked nervously from Race to Spot and over to Jack, waiting for someone else to take the lead.

“Hey, Racer, hey,” Jack said, pushing his chair back and crossing to the other side of the bed so that he could squat down next to Race and lay an arm across his friend’s shoulders. “ ‘S just a mean comment is all. He don't know nothin', so he ain’t gonna do nothin’.”

“He might not take care o’ Spot the way he oughta!” Race’s voice had risen in fear. “He might pass it on ta the staff an’ then they won’t look after Spot properly an’ then… an then…” Race ran a hand through his hair and hopped up from his chair. “ _Dammit_ , Jack, ‘s all my fault! Why’m I always so _dumb_? Spot’s always so careful an’ I… I just…” He sank back into the chair and covered his face in his hands.

Jack frowned and thought for a minute. “Hold up Spot’s hand for me, Race.”

Race peeked over his fingertips. “What?”

“His _hand_ , Race,” Jack said, motioning impatiently. “The left one.”

Race picked up Spot’s shaking hand and held it out to Jack with an uncertain look that only deepened when Jack slipped the thick gold wedding band off of his own fourth finger and onto Spot’s. Race blinked. “Jack?” 

“Spot’s married ta Kath an you’s Kath’s brother,” Jack said firmly. “You two ain’t peas in a pod or nothin’, but the curls oughta sell it just fine.” 

Race’s jaw dropped. “ _Jack_.” 

“No backtalk,” Jack snapped. “Anyone asks, he’s married ta Kath, you’s the devoted brother-in-law, an’ you’s engaged to a fine gal Upstate.”

Race gaped. “But what about you?”

“Me?” Jack winked and then flashed a cocky grin. “I’m your friend, ain’t I?”

“Yeah,” Race said, his eyes beginning to flood again. “Yeah, you is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably got this, but 'confirmed bachelor' used to be/still kind of is code for gay. It's period-appropriate.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the newsies spring into action.

Unable to handle Race’s gratitude, Jack clapped his friend on the back and stood to leave the ward. “See yous in a bit,” he said briskly, meeting Elmer’s eyes in a way that told Elmer to sit and stay. Elmer nodded, and Jack shifted his shoulders. “Gonna go call Kath, couldn’t catch her earlier.”

He loped out of the large room and down the hall, his right hand worrying at the empty space on his left ring finger. He walked several blocks to find a telephone that wasn’t in the hospital; the smells and sounds of illness were getting to him, and he needed a chance to grind his teeth and kick at the sidewalk and glare at people without offending any hospital staff whose help he might need later or, worse, upsetting his boys. 

He picked up the receiver, heard his coins clink into the machine, and dialed Katherine’s work number.

She picked up on the first ring. “Katherine Plumber,” she said, her voice crisp and strong.

“ ‘S me, love,” he said, rubbing his face tiredly.

Hearing the tension in his voice, she sucked in a breath. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“ ‘M fine.” Some of his sadness lifted at hearing Katherine exhale in relief. “ ‘S Spot. He’s in the hospital with wood alcohol poisoning. Doctors ain’t sure he’ll make it. Ambulance came at maybe 2 or 3 this mornin’, so he got help real quick, but from what the doctor said ya can’t never tell with this sort of thing.” He sighed. “I just seen him, though, an’ he’s doin’ okay for now, so maybe he’ll pull through? He’s still all shaky an’ pale an’ such, but…” He shrugged, knowing that even though she couldn’t see the motion, she’d hear it in his voice. “I just dunno, Ace.”

Katherine shifted the receiver to hear him better. “And Race?”

Jack slumped against the side of the wooden phone booth. “Not good. I’s more worried about him than I is Spot, ta be honest.” He closed his eyes and held a gloved hand to his brow. “They’s visiting hours right now, so I gots Elmer babysittin’ Racer while he sits with Spot, ‘cause there ain’t no way I’m leavin’ the kid alone, but I…” He huffed in a failed attempt at a laugh. “Well. ‘S been a helluva mornin’.”

“Sounds like that’s an understatement,” Katherine said, and Jack could hear the wheels turning. The sound of a pencil bouncing against a desk echoed through the phone line, and Jack felt his shoulders relax slightly. She’d know what to do; she always knew what to do. “Sit tight,” she said. “I’ll be down there in a jiffy. I’m going to make a few calls first, ask a couple of favors from Crutchie and Davey, and then I’ll head right over. Roosevelt Hospital?” 

“First floor.”

“Be there in thirty.”

 Jack smiled. Heavens above, but Katherine was a blessing. He was about to hang up when he remembered one last thing. “Ace, wait! You still there?”

“Yes.”

“The hospital staff, they seen somethin’ that weren’t meant for ‘em, so Spot’s wearin’ my weddin’ ring an’ Race’s your brother.”

There was the briefest of pauses on the other end of the line, and then: “Never thought I’d marry someone shorter than I am.” Katherine gave a quick hum of thought before adding, “Race doesn’t look a lot like me, but the curls should sell it just fine.”

Jack grinned. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?” 

“Tell me in person in half an hour,” she said, her smile vivid in his mind’s eye. “See you soon.” 

“Thanks,” Jack said, and the line clicked dead.

Back at the office of _The Sun_ , Katherine quickly dialed through to the accounting department at _The World_.

“Hello? Yes, this is Mrs. Katherine Kelly speaking, would you please transfer me through to Mr. Charles Morris? Yes, I’ll hold. Yes, thank you.” 

Seconds later, Crutchie’s voice crackled down the line. “Hey Kath! What can I do for you? I ain’t seen Jack t’day, if that’s what you’s callin’ about.” 

“No, Charlie. It’s Spot.” Katherine gave Crutchie the run-down, finishing with, “Race can’t be left alone, so Jack’s been there all day. Elmer, too. And I don’t know about Elmer, but Jack needs a nap and an hour to himself.” She sighed. “Not that he’d ever admit it, of course, but you should’ve heard him on the phone; poor thing’s exhausted. Think you could maybe get in touch with the other boys, set up a roster to cover shifts with Race?” 

“On it,” Crutchie said firmly. “I’ll set up one for Race and one for Spot; goodness knows between Manhattan an’ Brooklyn we’ve got enough guys ta handle the load. ‘M sure Rosie’ll be happy ta cover a shift, too,” he mused, “Might be nice ta get a lady’s touch in there at some point.”

“Oh! Yes. Add me in, too, obviously,” Katherine said. “I can do whenever. Maybe nights? I’m Spot’s wife for the time being, so that might be best for appearances’ sake.” 

“That so?”

“Mhmm. There was a run-in with the hospital staff, and I’m not clear on the details, but apparently I’m Katherine Conlon now. Nee Higgins, seeing as Race has become my brother.” She paused. “I guess you should pass all that on to the boys, too.”

“Got it,” said Crutchie. “Okay, Kath, I’ll be in touch. Roosevelt Hospital?”

“Yes. Thanks, Charlie.”

“Don’t mention it. Bye, Kath.” 

“Bye.”

Katherine’s next move was to call Davey. He took a little longer to get a hold of, seeing as she didn’t know his schedule and it wasn’t as if she could call every building on the Columbia campus to track him down (although she considered it), but eventually she heard his calm voice on the other end of the line. 

“Hello, Katherine.”

“Hi, Davey.” She explained less to Davey than she had to Crutchie, not feeling up to repeating the entire story again, but he got the gist of things pretty quick. “…so I was thinking, you’d be the perfect person to hold down the fort until Charlie’s got the schedule in place. I’d be able to get Jack out of there, make sure he takes care of himself, and Elmer could leave, too—Jack’d trust you there by yourself, after all.” 

“Sure, Kath.” 

“Really?”

“Of course. You’re right—I’m the perfect person for this job. Race might be willing to fall apart in front of the other boys; he’s too proud to do that with me. He’ll hold it together, if only so he can argue more effectively.” 

Katherine laughed. “Thanks, Davey. I knew you’d understand.”

She could hear the smile in Davey’s voice. “You’re welcome. I’m off to catch the streetcar—see you in a bit.”

As soon as Davey hung up, Katherine flew out to the street and hailed a cab. Expense be damned—she had to get to that hospital as quickly as possible. She rushed through the double doors of Roosevelt Hospital, explained that her husband was here and could she please get an update on his health and then see him immediately, and almost as soon as the nurse on call finished explaining the ins and outs of Spot’s condition and care, she found herself walking down the center of a long, narrow room lined by coughing, sneezing, pale-faced New Yorkers. 

She shuddered. What a terrible place to try to get well. At least Lucy had had the peace and quiet of her own bedroom when she was ill… although this was probably better than a tenement apartment…

She spotted Jack at the end of the room and picked up her skirts in order to get to him more quickly. She laid a quick hand on his shoulder and slid it away before it lingered too long. Then, her expression tender, she turned all of her attention to Spot, bending down to lay a kiss on his forehead and grip his free hand, the one Race wasn’t holding. “How is he?” She asked, trying to avoid eye contact with both Race and Jack. If she met the gaze of either one, she thought she might lose it.

“ ‘S good as c’n be expected,” said Elmer, his voice soft. “The doctor came by a few minutes ago, said they ain’t gonna know what ta expect for a few days yet. He was awake earlier, though, an’ that’s a good sign.” 

She nodded and pulled up a free chair, gently stroking Spot’s hair. “Elmer, would you draw the curtains, please?” Elmer jumped up to pull the curtains closed around the bed and give the group a little privacy. “Crutchie’s getting in touch with all the boys, drawing up a schedule to make sure you and Spot won’t ever be alone, Race,” Katherine said quietly. Then she turned to Elmer and Jack. “Davey’s on his way, and as soon as he’s here you two are going to go home and get something to eat,” she said. Taking in the dark circles under Jack’s eyes, she added, “And to get some sleep.” Katherine noted with slight concern that Jack didn’t even protest; he must be even more tired than he looked.

“Speak of the devil,” Elmer piped up. “Hiya, Davey.” 

“Hey,” Davey said, letting the curtains fall back behind him and setting a large canvas bag down on the floor beside Spot’s bed. “Okay, Elmer and Jack, you two need to scram.” He eased Elmer up out of one chair as Katherine began to tug at Jack’s arm. “I brought Race some lunch, and there’s not enough for you two vultures.” 

Race picked his head up off the coverlet at that. “Better be real food, Dave, not none of that healthy crud you eats all the time. An’ no beets.” 

Davey rolled his eyes and shooed Elmer out of the curtained area surrounding the bed. “Healthy food is, by definition, _not_ crud. And I don’t know what you’ve got against borscht—it’s great!”

“If ya likes your shit an’ pee ta be red, sure,” Race grumbled, scooting closer to Davey. “Go on, then, Dave, open the bag.”  

Katherine gave a little wave goodbye before pushing Jack gently through the curtains and tugging them back shut, muffling the sounds of Race and Davey’s bickering. She smiled and bumped Jack lightly sideways; she wanted to hold his hand, but that wouldn’t do, not while they were still in the hospital. He turned and smiled at her, his eyes bleary but still full of love.

“Elmer, are you alright to get home on your own?” Katherine asked as soon as they’d left the ward.

“Yeah, I am; thanks, Kath. I only been on call since this mornin’, so I got a good night’s sleep an’ all. Prob’ly gonna go by _The World_ , see if Crutchie needs any help settin’ up shifts.”

“Thanks for steppin’ in, kid,” Jack said, his voice raspy. 

Elmer shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Nothin’ ta thank. You’s all already done the same for me, least I c’n do is suffer through a car ride an’ sit in a chair fer a few hours.” 

Katherine smiled. “Still, Elmer. Race is lucky to have a friend like you.”

Elmer blushed. “We’s a fam’ly,” he said, kicking against the floor. “This is what fam’ly does.”

“It is,” said Katherine, stepping forward and giving Elmer a tight hug. “And I love you for it, Elmer.”

He blushed even more deeply and stared at his shoes. “Yeah, I, uh, I’ll see yous later,” he squeaked, and fled away down the hall. 

Katherine turned back to Jack and said quietly, “I want to hug you, too, but if I do, I’m not sure I’ll be able to let go.”

Jack rubbed his eyes and gave a weak smile. “Let’s get outta here, then.”

“Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first outdoor telephone booth in the US was installed in 1905 in Cincinnati.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack has to rally both Katherine and Davey.

Katherine wasn’t sleepy at all, but she had missed her husband, and so she laid next to him in their bed for a while, listening to his even breaths and watching the worry lines ease from his face. She stayed for as long as she could, mentally shuffling through the quotes she’d gotten recently from sources, brainstorming ideas for catchy ledes, trying to convince herself that she _could_ get work done while lying in bed, snuggled up against Jack, but eventually she had to face facts: she needed to get back to the office. 

With a sigh, she pulled away from Jack’s warmth and managed to slip out from under his arm without waking him. She tiptoed back into the bedroom once she’d showered and made herself presentable, though, bending over the side of the bed to lay a soft kiss on his cheek. 

Which woke him up.

“Ace?” He murmured, his voice cracking even on the single syllable.

“Shh, go back to sleep,” she said, smoothing his hair. 

He stretched out a hand to grab weakly at her wrist. “Where ya goin’? Why’s ya leavin’?” 

“Work,” she said, leaning back down to kiss his eyes closed. “I’ll be back tonight. Don’t you cook anything, either—I’ll bring something home or send someone over with food if I'm late.”

Jack groaned, his face still mashed sideways into his pillow. “Ughhhhhh. Why’m I still so tired?”

“Because you hardly slept at all last night and you’re sick with worry over your friends,” said Katherine, crossing the room to grab an extra hair ribbon.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess it’s prob’ly that.” He rolled onto his back and flung an arm across his eyes. “Say, Ace, afore you leave—what do we do? About this whole wood alcohol thing, I mean?”

Katherine paused in the doorway and drummed her fingers against the frame. She thought for a minute, tugged at her uncomfortable corset, and sighed. “I don’t know, love.” She looked at Jack, who had somehow pushed all of the covers down to the foot of the bed while he was asleep, and wished that she could offer him some sort of fix, some sort of answer, some sort of panacea for the cold fear of seeing a friend in pain. “This sort of thing just happens sometimes. It’s not unusual. You remember the swill milk scandal? The one that poisoned all those babies?” 

“We weren’t alive for that, Ace, ‘course I don’t remember it.”

She rolled her eyes. “You know that’s not what I meant, but—it’s not like it ever really ended, either. There’s plenty of it still being shipped into the city. Tammany Hall gets too much out of that racket to force it to stop. Same with wood alcohol. And plenty of other things, too, for that matter—really, it’s a wonder none of us has gotten sick before now.” 

Jack shot upright and smacked both hands on the mattress. “That ain’t _right_!”

“I _know_!” She shot back. “I know, Jack, but—” She took a deep breath and brought her volume back to normal. “I know. But it’s everywhere. There are thousands of people who have a stake in keeping things this way. Tammany Hall is on the side of the swill, and we can’t do a damn thing about it.” 

Jack scoffed. “Who are you and what have you done with my wife?” He glared at her, and she glared right back. “The Katherine I know would jump right in to something like this." 

She threw up her hands. “ _Tammany Hall_ , Jack!” 

He sprang out of bed and flung a pillow on the floor. “We beat them before, Ace! You and me, we beat them before, and we’ll do it again!” He took a step closer to her. “First time we ever teamed up, we brought your father to his knees, remember? Then we whupped Paul Kelly, the biggest, baddest gangster in alla New York, an’ now—now we’s gonna bring down the crooks what kills honest workin’ men with pois’nous alcohol.” Katherine raised an eyebrow and Jack held his hands out to her in entreaty. “We can _do_ it, Ace!” 

She crossed her arms over her chest. “The boys helped us with my father, and my father helped us with Paul Kelly.” 

“So they’ll help us again!” He moved to stand directly in front of her and tilted her chin up so that he could stare straight into her deep brown eyes. “We can _do_ this, Katherine. Together.”

She frowned, running through a thousand ways this could go wrong, a thousand ways this could get Race’s hopes up and then do nothing but hurt him more, a thousand ways they could run themselves ragged over this and never have anything to show for it. But… Jack’s simplest argument had convinced her. This wasn’t right. It wasn’t right, and that was really all she needed to know. It wasn’t right, and so it couldn’t stand. “Okay,” she said softly. “Okay. We’ll fix this. Together.”

Jack grinned and hugged her tightly. “There’s my girl,” he said, before releasing her and running into the living room, where they had put both of their desks. He snatched Katherine’s notebook off of her desk and a pad of paper and pencil off of his and dashed back to the bedroom. “So! What’s the plan?” 

“Investigate and publish,” she said dryly.

Jack refused to be put off by her unhelpful answer. “Okay, so we need sources, then.”

“Mhmm,” said Katherine, who still wasn’t certain they’d have the contacts and clout to pull this one off.

“Know any bootleggers or pub owners?”

Katherine sat down on the bed and wound a curl around her finger as she thought. “No, I… Hmm. Not that I know of. Well, maybe a pub owner or two? Not well, but…” She shrugged. “I can start poking around, at least.”

“Good.” Jack hummed as he scribbled that down. “I don’t, either, but I bet Medda does, an’ JoJo’s in the restaurant business now, he oughta know people who know people…”

Katherine snapped her fingers. “Isn’t Romeo a bartender?” 

Jack smacked his forehead—how could he have forgotten that? “Yes! I’ll ask Crutchie when Romeo’ll be watchin’ Spot; I’ll catch him then an’ see what he knows.”

“Oh, and Specs works at city records!” Katherine exclaimed, warming to the topic. “He’ll have information on poisonings across all five boroughs!”

“That’s perfect, Kath,” Jack breathed, his eyes lighting up. “We c’n track what kinda poisonings there’ve been, where they happened, when they happened…” He laughed. “Look out, world, here we come!”

 

*

 

Davey’s shift with Race didn’t end until 10 that night, by which time he was having real trouble keeping his eyes open. Even if he’d had the money for a cab uptown, there was no way he’d stay awake for the ride back to Columbia. Better just to crash with a friend in lower Manhattan. He clapped Buttons on the back as they traded places in the hospital hallway and, as he left, he shook his head listening to Buttons try to persuade Race to go home and sleep. “It’s a lost cause, Buttons,” he mumbled under his breath. And he ought to know; he’d been fighting that cause since early evening, to no avail.

Even before Davey left the building, he stuffed his bare hands into his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders against the cold. He trudged through the snowdrifts that had piled up since the city workers shoveled the sidewalks clear, wincing as he felt slush begin to seep in through the holes in his boots. He needed new ones, but Les was growing so fast that he needed a new everything every six months, and Sarah needed a helping hand now that Avram was laid up with pneumonia, and his parents needed fewer things to worry about… Next winter, maybe.

He paused to brush most of the snowflakes off of his hat and coat before knocking on the door to the Kellys’ apartment.

“Just a minute,” Jack called, although it took him barely ten seconds to get to the door and undo the locks. “Hiya, Dave,” he said with a smile. “Comin’ in?”

“Please,” Davey said, still shivering a little. He grunted in annoyance as he struggled to shuck all of his extra winter layers. “I love New York, but nights like this make me think you might’ve been on to something with that whole Santa Fe thing.”

Jack’s grin widened. “Little me had some good ideas.”

Davey’s eyes twinkled. “Does big you have some good tea?”

Jack laughed. “Sure, as long as you like chamomile. Kath keeps it on hand for nights she’s having trouble sleeping, but neither of us really likes the stuff, so I think that’s all we’ve got.”

“That’s perfect, thanks.” Davey shrugged off his coat and hung it on the rack next to the door. “Kath here?”

“Nah, she’s still at work.” Jack moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on. “You stayin’ over tonight? It’s pretty late.” 

“If that’s okay,” Davey said, trying to rub some feeling back into his fingers.

“Always.” Jack rummaged through the cabinets, trying to remember where the tea was. “How’re Race and Spot?” 

Davey sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. “Spot started throwin’ up again at the end of visiting hours. I don’t think there was even anything left in his stomach at that point, but…” He shook his head and closed his eyes. “It was really bad, Jack. The nurses came over and shooed us out, and of course that scared Race stiff, so now he’s refused to go home. Poor Buttons is spending the night in the hospital hallway with him.”

Jack slumped against the kitchen counter as he waited for the water to boil. “Damn. I swear, if Spot don’t pull through, I’ll kill him.”

Davey gave a weak smile. “You’ll have to get in line behind Race, you know.” 

“Yeah.” Jack rubbed his face wearily. “I’m gonna go set up the couch for ya, Dave. Teabag’s in the mug there, just pour the water over it.” 

“I know how to make tea, Jack.”

Jack rolled his eyes at Davey and disappeared down the hallway. Moments later, Davey heard the front door reopen and the distinct thud of Katherine kicking her boots off against the wall.

“I hate this stinking city, Jack, I _hate_ it!” Katherine’s voice echoed down the hallway. “I checked with Romeo and Specs, and they’ve got fantastic information on bootleggers and wood alcohol poisonings, so I’ll definitely be able to find the leads I need to blow this thing wide open, and you were right, it’s something we have to do, but I went to pitch the story to my editor and he wouldn’t even let me finish my _sentence_ —he shut me down as soon as I said ‘swill milk’! He said the red clauses meant we couldn’t publish anything on food safety, nothing at _all_ , it’s out of his hands, above his paygrade, no way in hell could he run anything on this, I hate New York, and, oh, get this, this is rich—” Katherine stomped into the kitchen, yanking off her work satchel and preparing to slam it onto the counter. She froze at the sight of Davey, who was sitting at the kitchen table, his eyes wide. “Oh, uh, hi, Davey! I didn’t know you were here.” 

“Tah dah!” He said, giving her a little wave with his fingers.

“Sorry for the earful,” she said sheepishly.

“No need to apologize,” he said, his voice earnest. “That’s serious stuff, Kath, and you’re right to be mad. So you’re writing a story on adulterated food? Are you going after the people who poisoned Spot?”

“I was _going_ to,” she lamented, sinking down in the chair across from Davey. “But these damned red clauses—it’s unbelievable, Dave! I can’t publish a thing!” She clenched her fists and growled. “No matter how many people die, no one in this whole lousy city will run a story on poisoned milk or poisoned alcohol. Tammany Hall’s got this whole city in its pockets, and as long as they can make a quick buck, they don’t care what kind of havoc they wreak on the rest of us.” She smacked the table with both hands, causing the vase in the center of the table to jump. “It’s despicable, Davey, and there’s nothing I can do about it! I’ve hit a dead end before I’ve even started!” She grabbed at a spoon on the table and hurled it against the far wall, where it made an unsatisfying ding as it hit. She reacted with a cry of frustration. “Damn politicians, damn cowardly newspaper publishers, damn crooks who might’ve _killed_ _Spot_ —they’re all getting away scot-free. No one cares. No one cares a whit about the lives these bastards are snuffing out, one by one. No one cares about what happened to Spot, and…” She met Davey’s eyes and let out a sob. “Oh, _Davey_ , what’s going to happen to Race if Spot dies? How will he cope? How is he going to…? I mean, if Jack were to… to…” Her chin began to tremble. “Looking at Spot in that bed today, all I could think about was how it could have been Jack lying there instead of Spot, and… and about how glad I was that it was Spot and not Jack.” She looked stricken. “Race is my _friend_ , and there he is, sitting right across from me, absolutely heartbroken, and here I am thanking my lucky stars that it’s not Jack in that bed—what is _wrong_ with me?” Her voice had gone thick. “And it’s only by the grace of God that it was Spot and not Jack, too. It so easily could’ve been Jack, because he was at that party with them, and I… I just… if I…” She covered her face in her hands and began to cry.

Davey rose from his chair and moved to wrap Katherine in a tight hug. “Shh, Kath. Jack’s okay. He’s fine. He’s here. And Race is going to be fine, too. And…” He hesitated. “And so is Spot,” he said firmly. She sobbed again, and Davey began rocking her gently from side to side. 

She quieted quickly, pulling back when the kettle started to sing. Sniffling a little, she pointed to the stove. “Better get that. Jack hates when I let it scream for too long.” Wiping her eyes, she attempted a smile and said, “I keep telling him he should just pretend it’s the whistle on the express train to Santa Fe, but he doesn’t find that as funny as I do.”

Davey laughed and went to fix his tea.

“Thanks, Davey,” she said quietly, rubbing her nose on her sleeve.

“Of course, Kath.” He added a spoonful of sugar and sat back down at the table, warming his hands on the ceramic mug. 

Jack walked in soon after and hugged Katherine from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder and turning to nuzzle at her ear. “I love you, you know,” he whispered, his hot breath tickling against her skin.

“I know,” she murmured, her eyes welling up again. She reached a hand back over her shoulder to stroke the side of his face and tried not to cry.

“And I’m not going anywhere,” he said, gently kissing her hair.

“Please don’t,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Not ever,” he promised, and pulled out the chair next to hers, laying a hand on her thigh. “So, star reporter, what’s this about red clauses?”

Katherine heaved a sigh and laid her head on her hand. “They’re built into the newspapers’ contracts with advertisers. If we publish anything in favor of regulating the food and drug industry, then the advertisers will pull their support, and the paper will go under.”

Davey choked on his tea. “What?” He spluttered. “But that—that can’t be legal! The public has a right to know what’s in their food and drink and medicine!”

Katherine made a face. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But money talks.”

Jack rolled his shoulders and clenched his jaw. “That ain’t right. That just ain’t right. An’ we ain’t gonna let ‘em get away with it.” He rubbed Katherine’s back and shook his head. “We ain’t gonna roll over an’ let ‘em win, no sir.” 

Davey raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No!” Jack shouted. “No way in hell. We didn’t let a publishing ban stop us during the strike, did we?” The other two shook their heads. “Well, there you go,” Jack said, as if that settled everything.

Katherine shot a look at Davey, who widened his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh, come on,” Jack said, looking from Katherine to Davey and back again. “We publish our own paper! It worked before, why couldn’t it work again?”

“That paper was targeted, Jack,” Davey said. “We had a specific audience, we told the newsies exactly what to do to support the cause, and we had a concrete goal we were trying to achieve. This—this is a lot broader and more abstract.”

“So?” Jack demanded.

“It’s harder to rally people behind broad and abstract,” Katherine said tiredly. “Even if people care about the issue, they probably won’t bother to do anything about it, because they figure someone else will pick up the slack. And the small number of people who _do_ care enough to do something will have trouble figuring out _what_ to do, so they'll end up working at cross-purposes.”

“Or we'll end up with so many possible solutions that Tammany Hall can just ignore them all, because no matter how good each suggestion is, there won't be enough people supporting any single one of them to make it stick,” Davey added.

Katherine nodded, and her elbow slid slightly on the table, causing her head to droop even further. “Plus, we don’t have a fixed end goal, so how do we know when we’ve won? People get tired of fighting when there’s no end in sight.”

Jack scoffed. “You two are bein’ real dummies tonight. If we need a concrete goal, we invent one. If we need to tell people what to do to help, we give ‘em a list. If we need people to think their voice matters, we make it personal.” He reached out to grab one of Katherine’s hands and one of Davey’s, giving them both a little shake. “All of this is doable! We just gotta work a little harder than last time, is all.”

Katherine rubbed at the back of her neck and Davey bit his lip. They traded glances, feeling the heat of Jack’s eyes on them.

“Okay,” Davey said eventually. “Let’s give it a shot.”

“There we go!” Jack said in triumph. “Kath?” 

She frowned, running through ideas on how they could make this work. No way was she going to jump on anything that would raise Race's hopes in vain, but if there was any way they could win this, then she'd fight with everything she had. _So, Katherine, think. Come on, think._ _What if... and then... and maybe if... Yes. Okay._ As soon as she saw a way forward, she nodded. “I’m in. For sure,” she said, her voice growing in conviction. “How about we publish targeted pamphlets with the number of recent poisonings in the area? And we could include interviews of local mothers whose babies who’ve gotten sick on swill milk, and wives whose husbands are now unable to work due to wood alcohol poisonings—tug some heartstrings. And then,” she said slowly, “Then, at the end, we suggest a letter-writing campaign? Maybe schedule some marches? List phone numbers for aldermen?”

“Perfect!” Jack said, clapping his hands. “Davey? Thoughts?”

Davey leaned backwards and ran his hands through his hair. “Hmm. Well, _The Jungle_ sure stirred things up over in Chicago,” he mused. “Our story would, too, I bet—especially if we illustrated it, because then even the common man and non-English speakers would understand, and that’s who we really need to reach.” He began to drum his fingers on the table as he puzzled through the situation, mentally slotting the pieces into place. “Maybe that doesn’t matter quite as much for political influence,” he continued, “But it does for public awareness and prevention of future poisonings. And even ordinary people are powerful when they work together,” he finished with a grin. “We ought to know that better than anyone.”

“I knew you two would come up with something!” Jack sprang out of his chair and ruffled Kath’s hair before running to hug Davey. “We can do this, kids. We can. I swear.”

Katherine smiled at his enthusiasm and tried to smooth her hair back down. “Okay, then. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll go our own way.” 

“We always do, and we always win,” Jack said, his eyes sparkling. He leaned across the table and kissed her forehead. “Ain’t nobody can stop us, macushla. Not when the three of us works together.”

Jack shoved Davey’s head sideways in an affectionate gesture, and Davey bit back a smile. “Can we start working together tomorrow, though?” Davey asked. “I’m beat.”

“Hmm?” Jack said, blinking. He flipped his wrist to check the time and was startled to see how late it was. He tapped his watch and shot a questioning look at Katherine, who twisted her own wristwatch towards him and nodded, her eyebrows raised. Jack brushed his nose in embarrassment. “Oh, right, yeah—scoot over to that couch, then, kiddo. It’s been a long day, an’ you’ve got that early mornin’ trek uptown to Columbia ta wake up for, too.”

“Night, Jack,” Davey said, popping Jack in the shoulder as he left the kitchen. “Night, Kath. Try to stay out of trouble until morning.”

Katherine laughed. “I think we can manage that. Even Jack has a hard time getting into trouble once he’s asleep,” she said.

“Doesn’t he sleepwalk?” Davey asked. 

“Ohhhh, good point,” she said. “Never mind. Well, if you wake up and he’s standing next to you muttering about kidnappings and pancakes, try not to get scared. He’ll look pretty wild, but he’s harmless. Just turn him in the direction of the bedroom, give him a shove, and he’ll come right back to me.”

“What a well-trained puppy,” Davey joked.

“Okay, that’s _enough_ ,” Jack grumbled, shoving Davey out of the kitchen. “You two are the worst, you know that?” 

“But you love us anyway,” Katherine said cheekily, standing and wrapping her arms around him.

“Yeah,” Jack said, rolling his eyes and pulling her closer. “Only heaven knows why,” he added, leaning his head on hers, “But yeah, I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical notes:**
> 
> The New York City swill milk scandal happened in 1858. Basically, dairy producers were adding crud to the milk (including plaster of Paris), feeding cows the leftover mash from distilleries, and keeping the cows in horrible conditions, and babies were getting sick and dying from drinking the milk that was produced this way. A couple of important politicians from Tammany Hall (the NYC political machine) said no, no, everything’s fine, and then they did a really good job of keeping the inquiry into the swill milk producers from actually revealing the health risks of drinking swill milk. Eventually, public outcry overcame the politicians’ reluctance to acknowledge or address the problem, and milk regulations were passed in 1862. Enforcement was spotty, however. 
> 
> The red clauses were real, although they didn't function exactly like I need them to in order for my plot to work. Basically, they applied only to patent medicine ads, not to all food and drink ads, and these companies would withdraw their ads (which most papers relied on to stay afloat) only if the paper openly supported regulatory legislation for food and drugs. So I think Katherine's story would actually be fine to run as long as she didn't include any info advocating the passage of regulatory legislation, but, well, that doesn't work for my story, so I've upped the ante. 
> 
> The phrase “money talks” dates to about 1900, although the idea is much older.
> 
> Upton Sinclair's _The Jungle_ , a groundbreaking exposé on the horrors of the meat-packing industry in Chicago, was published in February 1906. Confession: I read the first 20 pages and got bored, so I never finished. I guess it was gripping reading at the time, though!
> 
>  
> 
> **Non-historical notes:**
> 
> With the timeline I’ve set up in previous fics, Davey is now a second semester junior at Columbia.
> 
> Also, I didn't note this in the previous chapter, but I ended up writing a smut interlude that takes place between Chapters 6 & 7 (it starts as Jack & Kath leave the hospital), so obviously it's not essential to the plot, but if you missed that and that is something you would like to read, then just know that it exists and has been posted. 
> 
> Sorry for the long delay between updates! The holidays have been crazy. This update is like 3900 words, though, so hopefully that pacifies you somewhat ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack, Katherine, and Davey work really, really hard.

Jack, Katherine, and Davey all worked furiously over the next several weeks. Whenever Jack wasn’t at the hospital with either Race or Spot or interviewing men who weren’t willing to talk to Katherine, then he was in the apartment, where he spent every waking moment sketching furiously, mocking up layouts, and having telephone conversations with his editor in which he feigned illness and promised he’d send his illustrations in on time, yes sir, yes sir, thank you sir, that’s right sir, goodbye now sir…

Katherine, in contrast, was almost never home. Jack occasionally managed to catch her on the phone at her office for the space of a breath or two, but when she wasn’t sitting by Spot’s side and pretending not to see how Race inched ever closer to Spot when he thought she wasn’t looking, then she was breaking her head over at city records, pounding the pavement to gather stories from distraught young widows and grief-stricken mothers, and scrambling to finish her usual workload of everyday assignments for _The Sun_.

Davey had less time to devote to the story than Jack and Katherine did. He was at a double disadvantage, given that being a reporter was not actually his job and that junior year of college was no joke. Especially not when you were double majoring in government and economics, bussing tables on the weekends to help out your family, and trying your level best to line up some sort of summer job with the National Child Labor Committee, the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society, or the Educational Alliance. But he soldiered on, spending hours every evening going through packets of files that Specs had sent to him, sticking pins in a map of the city so he could track the number and location of milk and alcohol poisonings that happened year after year, and writing up summaries to send to Katherine so she could turn them into full-fledged stories for each of their neighborhood-specific pamphlets.

Eventually, though, the work was done. Mock-ups of each pamphlet, painstakingly illustrated and designed by Jack, stood piled on the Kellys’ kitchen table. Stack after stack after stack covered the eating surface, leaving no room for Jack’s beloved pancake breakfasts or Katherine’s indulgent evening coffee.

Jack folded his arms across his chest and stared at the results of several weeks subsisting on coffee, peanut butter sandwiches, and far too much isolation. “Well.” 

“Well, indeed,” agreed Katherine, who was sitting on one of the kitchen counters, her legs crossed at the ankles.

“Mmm,” said Davey, rubbing a knuckle at one of the dark circles under his eyes. They all looked at each other in silence, not quite believing they’d actually pulled this all together.

“You boys know this was the easy part, right?” Katherine asked. 

Davey groaned, tipping his head back against the wall, and Jack reached over to smack her legs. “Geez, Ace, give a fella a minute to enjoy the moment, wouldja?”

She rolled her eyes and hopped off the counter. “Are you going to help me bring these to Father or what?” 

“Oh, you know how I love visiting the pops-in-law,” Jack said, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. Still, he began putting piles of the pamphlets in old newsie bags that he then slung across his chest. 

Davey sighed and followed suit. “He’s not all bad, Jack,” he said, stuffing a stack of sheets into his school satchel. “I mean, you haven’t ever tried to leave _The World_ , so he must be a decent employer nowadays." Then, after a deliberately teasing pause, he added, "I hear he's got a pretty great daughter, too.”

“Yeah, I know,” Jack grumbled. “I like him better at a distance, though.”

“Most people do,” Katherine said lightly. “Let’s go.”

 

*

 

Katherine had been working on her father for weeks, wearing him down so that he’d agree to help them with their project. The problem wasn’t the cost of the paper, the ink, or even the use of his presses—he’d offered all that before she’d even had a chance to ask. No, the rub was that Katherine wanted to distribute the pamphlets as inserts in _The World_ , so that anyone who bought a paper would be sure to read all about the crooked dealings of Tammany Hall and the way the city’s politicians were endangering the lives of this city and its innocent citizens. 

Pulitzer was not having it. “I’m on your side, Katherine, but I cannot lose my advertisers. The company would fold.”

“ _The World_ isn’t listed anywhere on the insert, Father. You can deny any involvement. Publish an article the next day blaming the pamphlets on unknown muckrakers who broke into the distribution center warehouses.”

Joseph Pulitzer scoffed. “That might not be enough to pacify the businessmen. It certainly wouldn’t work on me if I were in their shoes.”

“But you’re not in their shoes,” Katherine insisted. “You’re on the side of the working men in this city, Father, and the immigrant children whose mothers can’t afford to buy safe milk. I know you are.” 

“Don’t try to win this by appealing to my better nature, Katherine,” Pulitzer said, tapping his pen on his desk.

“Why not? This isn’t about dollars and cents—this is about what’s right.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Alright, Katherine. Let’s play it that way. Is publishing this pamphlet really the 'right' thing to do? If my paper goes under, then New York loses the one citywide paper that is accessible to the common man and that reports on all of the _other_ injustices happening in this city.” He leaned forward. “If we fight this battle, it will very likely be our last. And if that is the case, then who will fight the battles that happen in the future, Katherine? Who will report on corrupt policemen, on political bribes, on the fight for female suffrage?” 

Katherine huffed. “Low blow.”

“I disagree. Actions have consequences, and you need to acknowledge that the consequence of this action may very well be that you lose your best connection in the publishing industry and the downtrodden masses in this city lose one of their most powerful advocates.”

Katherine frowned.

“Look, Kitty,” Pulitzer said, softening slightly. “If this is what you want from me, then I will do it. I have my fingers in other pies; the family will be fine. My employees, though—I can’t support all of them, too, not if _The World_ goes under. Nor can I rebuild a paper from nothing. Maybe your plan works, maybe I deny involvement and the drug companies swallow it, maybe it’s all smooth sailing and _The World_ remains untouched. But there is a distinct possibility that these pamphlets will sink my paper, and my employees and my influence along with it, and you need to take that into consideration.”

Katherine nodded, pushed her chair back, and left.

She was back in her father’s downtown office the next day, her jaw set, her eyes steely. “Do it.”

He nodded.

 

*

 

The only modification to the plan since then had been the decision to deliver the pamphlets alongside the newspapers rather than slipped into them. The newsie network had been alerted, and kids all over the city knew that the stacks of pamphlets sitting just outside the distribution office –stacks of pamphlets that, officially speaking, did not exist– were to be picked up for free and handed to customers with their papers.

“Tell ‘em to make it clear it ain’t part of the paper, though,” Crutchie cautioned the borough leaders, whom he’d summoned to The World building for what Spot would've called a council of war. “They gots ta give the papers ta people with one hand an' the pamphlets with the other. Not all at once, but separate-like. Ya hear?" He heard some grumbling and doubled down. "If ya don't, we's sunk. The advertisers take their money to another paper what don't care about stoppin' poisoners,  _The World_ goes belly-up, an all our jobs go poof." He ran a hand through his hair and leaned in close. "Look, I knows it's a pain, but ‘s important, so youse gotta drum that inta your newsies, ya hear?” He stared at each scruffy kid in turn, making sure they’d understood. “We mess this up, we's outta work.”

The newsies saluted and promised him they’d take care of it. “You got it, Boss,” said one particularly bright-eyed girl, winking at him as she left.

Crutchie sighed and shook his head. His normal optimism had yet to kick in about all of this. “I sure hope I’s got a job next week,” he muttered, turning back to the account book in front of him.

 

*

 

After a long day of running pamphlets to distribution offices across the city for both the morning and evening papers, Jack finished locking the door and turned to Katherine, who was balancing on her right foot, trying not to fall over as she unlaced and tugged at the boot on her left foot. “Well,” he said, brushing at his nose, “All we can do now is wait.”

“Oof!” Said Katherine, toppling onto the floor. 

Jack laughed and sat down next to her, pulling off first her left boot and then the right. “You okay, there, love?”

Katherine flopped back onto the parquet in the hallway and groaned. “So. Tired.” He tickled the bottom of her stockinged foot until she giggled and squirmed to escape. “Jack! Stop!”

He grinned and laid down next to her, aligning his face with hers. He scooted close to give her an eskimo kiss and then brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “Whad’ya say we take a vacation day tomorrow, huh?” 

“Mmm,” she hummed, running her fingers across the stubble on his cheek and then brushing them softly across his lips. “I like the way you think, Mr. Kelly.”

“That so, Mrs. Kelly?” He laid a hand on her hip. 

“Very much so,” she said, fighting to keep her eyes open. “Why don’t you…” She yawned and covered her mouth with an ink-smudged hand. “Why don’t you tell me what you’re thinking now, hmm?” 

He smiled and shifted into a squat. “I’m thinking I’m going to carry you to bed, macushla, and then you an’ me are gonna sleep until we wake up. No alarms, no deadlines, just the two of us asleep in our real cozy bed.” 

“Perfect,” she murmured, sitting up slightly and reaching to clasp her arms around his neck.  

He hefted her into his arms and walked down the hallway, his boots trailing melting snow behind him as Katherine fell asleep on his shoulder.

 

*

 

Jack’s grand plans for a quiet morning were foiled by a very excited Davey hammering at the front door. 

“Jack! Kath! I know you’re in there, I already stopped by your offices an’ ya weren’t there, so you hafta be here, I mean seriously, I know you’re here ‘cause where else would you be, right?” There was a slight pause in the hammering as Davey thought about other places that Jack and Katherine might be at eight in the morning, and then he laughed at himself. Of course they were here. The newspaper business forced them to get up early, but on the rare occasion when they weren't at work by eight, they would obviously be in bed-- he’d never met a couple as fond of sleeping in as Jack and Kath. … _Oh._ Hmm. It _was_ kind of early. Maybe he should’ve waited…? Naaaah. This was important! “Come on, you two, open _up_!”

Jack groaned and fumbled at the headboard for a pillow he could use to cover his head. Katherine made a squeak of protest as he knocked her in the nose while doing so, and then she jammed her cold feet against his legs in retaliation. 

“Aaa!” He yelped, jerking away from her. “Are you _sure_ you ain't an icicle come to life?” 

“Answer the door,” she mumbled, burrowing under the covers and prodding him with her frigid little toes. 

“Gaah! Stop it, woman!” He shoved her legs backwards and started hunting for another pillow to muffle the sound of Davey’s voice. “And why's it gotta be me what answers the door? He’s your friend, too. You do it.” 

“As you so helpfully pointed out just now, I am a woman. And I happen to be a woman who is wearing a nightgown,” she said sternly. “And that happens to be a man at the door.” 

Jack groaned and rolled out of the bed. “ _Fine_. But that man at the door is hollering for both of us, so don’t you dare fall back asleep, Katherine Kelly.”

“Don’t you tell me what to do,” she grumped, swaddling herself in his side of the coverlet.    

“Sleep is for the wicked and the weak!” He shouted, jerking the covers off her and bouncing onto the bed. “Up an’ at ‘em, Kittykins!”

She shrieked and scrabbled for the blankets, but he laughed and tossed them off the bed before running out of the room. 

Katherine grabbed a couple of pillows and dashed to the bedroom door to toss them ineffectually after him. “You are _in_ for it, boy!” She called down the hallway, rolling her eyes and slamming the door as he raised his thumb to his nose and waggled his fingers at her. “Cocky little son of a…” She muttered, crossing to the dresser. 

Meanwhile, Jack was halfway to the door, scratching his back and yawning. “David! Knock it off, will ya?” The pounding continued and Jack growled in frustration. “I hear ya, Dave, geez, just gimme a second ta walk down the hallway!” He yanked the door open with a glare. “What the _heck_ is so urgent that ya couldn’t let me an’ my gal get some sleep! We's beat!”

Davey was too buoyant to look even slightly chastened. Instead, he held up a fresh edition of _The World_ in one hand and _The Sun_ in another, letting both of them fall open so that Jack could see the full front page of each. “Above. The fold!” He grinned, his eyes alight with excitement. “We’re famous again, Jackie!” 

Jack snatched both papers out of Davey’s hands, scanning first one headline and then the other. His eyes widened as he read, and then he turned and ran down the hallway. “Ace! Ace, get a load of this! We made the front page! _Twice!_ ” He kicked the door open and slid across the floorboards in his socks, drawing a yelp from Katherine, who was in the middle of pulling her slip over her head. He paused just long enough to let her get her head and arms through the slip before shoving the papers in her face. “ _Look!_ ”

Katherine gave him a glare that was almost as cold as her feet before deigning to read the headlines. As soon as she did, her mouth fell open, she squealed, and then she took a flying leap into his arms. “We did it! We did it! Oh my heavens, we did it!”

Jack let the papers fall from his hands and spun her around, laughing in glee. “ ‘Outraged Citizens March on Tammany Hall,’” he quoted, setting her down and falling backwards onto the bed in disbelief.

“ ‘New Yorkers Demand Safe Food And Drink; Politicians Accused of Abetting Poisoners,’” she yelled back as she raced out of the room, grabbed Davey’s hands, and started hopping up and down. “They can’t ignore this, they _can’t!_ Oh, Davey, we did it! It worked!”

“And there’s been no action against your father or his paper, either,” Davey added, his eyes sparkling. “I called him to check.”

Katherine cheered and clapped her hands. She ran back down the hallway, tugging Davey after her. “We did it!” She called again, poking her head into the bedroom and beaming at Jack. Then she went completely still, causing Jack and Davey to exchange puzzled looks. Her mouth fell open, and she sucked in a breath. “Oh! Ohhh! We have to tell Race and Spot!” The boys blinked, and then Jack sprang off the bed and hurriedly started yanking clothes out of the dresser, while Davey went to pick the papers off of the floor. Completely flustered, Katherine scrambled across the bed to the closet and pulled out the first dress she saw.

Davey blushed, now acutely aware that Katherine was only in her slip, and backed out of the bedroom. “I’ll, uh, go make coffee,” he said. “You two are useless without it.” 

Jack was too giddy to take note of the jibe. He probably hadn’t even heard it; he’d been singing some sort of made-up victory song ever since Katherine had mentioned Race and Spot.

“Thanks, Davey!” Katherine called after him. Her happy laughter echoed down the hallway as Davey grinned and went to put the kettle on. The last sounds he heard before slipping into the kitchen were mumblings from Katherine and the abrupt silence of Jack’s strong tenor voice, followed by low moans and the sound of the bedroom door slamming shut.

“Guess I’ll have time to make eggs and toast, too,” he muttered, shaking his head as a smile spread slowly across his face. “What an impossible pair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Historical Notes:**
> 
> The National Child Labor Committee is mentioned in Ties That Bind, so I’m not going to describe it again here.
> 
> The Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society (HIAS) was founded in 1881 to help Jewish immigrants (at the time, Jewish immigrants were arriving primarily from Russia). In 1904 HIAS established an office on Ellis Island, where it was instrumental in helping Jewish immigrants and refugees acclimate to (and enter) the United States. The organization still exists today, although now its mission is to aid refugees more generally. 
> 
> The Educational Alliance was founded by German Jewish immigrants in New York City in 1889 as a vehicle for ‘Americanizing’ the new wave of Jewish immigrants, most of whom were Eastern European, working class, fairly religious families. Several notable Jewish philanthropists of the time raised a substantial sum of money to purchase the Alliance’s original building at 197 East Broadway. The initial approach was patronizing, but it did offer useful practical courses for children and adults, a recreational area, and a theater, and beginning in 1905 it had an art school, too. The Alliance still exists today, and, like HIAS, it has expanded substantially—it now offers counseling services, Head Start programs, drug treatment programs, and more at 29 sites around the city.
> 
>    
>  **Non-Historical Notes:**
> 
> Didn't make you wait as long for this one and it's STILL a decently long chapter! *pats self on back* (tries not to think about all the actual work that is going undone...)
> 
> I hope you liked it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jack and Katherine visit Race and Spot.

The initial swell of protests and outrage ebbed quickly; too quickly. As the weeks went by, it looked more and more like nothing would change, although no one said so out loud. If they said something, that would make it final, but if they didn’t, if they kept quiet, then who knew, maybe they’d be surprised—maybe something would happen today, or tomorrow, or the next day.…

Even though Jack and Katherine worked at the papers and caught most of the news before each edition went to press, they found themselves compulsively combing through both the morning and evening print runs at home, hoping that maybe they’d missed a short item on city legislation or regulatory rumblings up in Albany.

Nothing.

“Nothing at all,” Katherine sighed, tossing the evening edition of _The World_ to the floor.

“Zip,” Jack agreed, crumpling _The Sun_ into a ball that he lobbed across the room, missing the wastebasket by a good six inches.

They stared at each other from opposite sides of the couch, her face glum, his jaw tight.

“Race goes back to work tomorrow,” Katherine volunteered, swinging her legs onto the sofa and bending to hug her knees.

Jack winced. “I had him for the morning shift yesterday. I really don’t think he’s ready.”

“He doesn’t have a choice, does he? Not with Spot out of work, anyway. I’m amazed their savings have lasted this long, to be honest. And maybe it’ll be a good thing, right? Get him out of the apartment, get his mind off of things for a bit?”

“That’s not really how his brain works,” Jack said, shaking his head. “He gets stuck on things, you know? The hospital visiting hours were a blessing, really, ‘cause that meant he could leave Spot without feeling guilty, seeing as he’d just be in the hall anyway. He got to shut all of that off for a little, take a break.” Jack rolled his shoulders slightly. “But now that Spot’s home, he’s allowed to be with Spot all day every day, an’ that means he feels like he _has_ to be there all day every day.” Jack rubbed at his inky knuckles. “I know Race, love, an’ trust me—every minute he’s not in that apartment, he’s gonna be thinking about Spot an’ hating himself for being elsewhere. Even if he goes out, even if he _wants_ to go out, he won’t be out. Not really, anyway; his head’ll keep him right there by that bed.”

Katherine sighed. “So what do we do? I don’t think we ought to tell him he shouldn’t race—what if it spooks him?”

Jack shrugged. “We can check on him tonight, I guess? Maybe go watch the race tomorrow, be there if he needs us kind of thing?” 

Katherine nodded. “Whatever you think is best.”

 

*

 

Katherine took a deep breath before knocking on the door to Spot and Race’s apartment. It took a minute for Specs to open the door. “Hi guys,” he said cheerfully. “Come on in.” He waved them into the small area that doubled as a kitchen and a living room. Race gave a nod from his seat at the kitchen table, where he was playing cards with Specs.

“We brought a casserole,” Katherine said, setting it on the counter. “No, don’t worry, Jack made it,” she said, catching Race’s unspoken question. “I wouldn’t bring you anything I made, I’m not trying to poison—” Her eyes widened and she clapped a hand to her mouth. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean it like that, I just—I meant that I wouldn’t force you to eat my cooking, is all,” she finished lamely.

Spot laughed from the opposite side of the room, where he was resting on the couch, tucked under a ratty afghan. “I appreciate that, Kath,” he said. “One poisonin’s enough for me, I think.”

She flushed scarlet and tried to hide her embarrassment by hunting through the cupboards for plates. 

“So,” Jack said, moving to sit on the arm of the couch, “First day home, huh? How are ya?” 

Spot shrugged and pulled his left arm out from under the blanket. “Still can’t seem ta get rid of the shakes in this hand,” he said matter-of-factly. “Doctors say ‘s perm’nent now.”

Race made a noise and gripped his cards so tightly that Katherine could see every vein in his forearms. 

“It _is_ , Race,” Spot said, not bothering to look towards the table. “We been through this. Ain’t no miraculous recov’ry in the cards for me; I ain’t never gonna stop shakin’, I ain’t never gonna see perfect even if I gets glasses like ol’ Specs here, an’ I ain’t never workin’ at the docks no more. That’s just the way things are now. Best ta face up to it.” 

At that, Race shoved his chair back, swept his arm across the table to ruin the card game, and stalked into the bedroom. He slammed the door behind him without so much as a word to Spot, letting his uncharacteristic silence say everything that he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. Or didn’t know how to. 

Katherine froze in the act of serving the casserole, casting an uncertain look at Spot.

Spot rolled his eyes and ran his trembling hand through his dark hair. “He don’t like talkin’ about it, clearly. We’ve known a while, but he hasn’t wanted ta tell anyone; I guess he was thinkin’ I’d get better.” He scoffed. “Well. I played along in the hospital these last several weeks, kept it under wraps, but enough’s enough. This is how I am now, an’ there ain’t no use pretendin’ any different.”

“Mmm. What’s wrong with your eyes, then?” Jack asked.

Spot’s lips quirked briefly at the blunt question. He and Jack hadn’t always been on the same page back when they were borough leaders, but they’d always been straight with each other. Sometimes brutally so. Still, the sharpness of their interactions had never been a competition to see who was tougher; what other people interpreted as rudeness, Spot and Jack knew to be respect for each other's time and intelligence. And after weeks of being treated like a glass figurine, Spot appreciated that Jack was behaving just as he always had.

“Everything’s a little blurry,” Spot said. “You know when you get real tired an’ everythin’ just goes fuzzy?”

Jack nodded.

“It’s like that.” Spot shifted under the blanket and continued. “It ain’t so bad; I can still see all I need to. Readin’s outta the question, but I ain’t never been much of a reader, anyway, so who cares.” 

Katherine began passing out the plates of casserole, along with silverware, and handed the first piece to Spot. He gave her a wink. “I figure as long as I can see my dinner in front of me, I’m just fine.” She laughed and went to grab the next plate. 

“Holy hell, Spotty,” Jack said, tugging at his cap and readjusting it over his dark hair.

“Yeah,” Spot said, shoveling the first forkful of casserole into his mouth. “It’s been wild. Doctors said by all rights I oughta be dead or blind or paralyzed—did they tell ya that?” He looked thoughtful for the space of a moment and then grinned. “I figure I’m lucky ta be breathin’ an’ seein’ an’ movin’ at all, so all the other stuff I can do is just gravy.”

Jack let out a whistle and reached to clasp one of Spot’s feet through the blanket. “You always did know how to wriggle out of tight spots, Conlon. Glad ta see this ain’t no different.”

Spot barked out a laugh and swallowed another mouthful of casserole. “It’s gonna take more’n some rotten alcohol ta keep me down, Kelly.” He kicked upwards to loosen Jack’s grip. “Now go eat your dinner, alright?” 

“Yeah.” Jack sat down at the table and started picking at his food.

“Oh, wait,” Spot said, chewing noisily. “Jackie, here, catch.” Spot tugged Jack’s wedding ring off of his trembling finger and tossed it over. “I ain’t thanked you two for that yet,” he said, nodding towards Katherine, “But me an’ Race—we’s grateful. Real grateful.” He looked earnestly from Jack to Katherine and rubbed the back of his neck. “I know it weren’t easy for ya, Kath, havin’ ta visit me most every day ta keep up appearances, an' yet ya did it anyway. You’s the best fake wife a man could ask for.” A smile tugged at his lips as he added, “Though I bet the hardest part of it all was gettin’ ta make-believe ya was married ta such a handsome specimen while knowin’ that soon ya’d hafta go back ta that one’s ugly mug,” he said, gesturing to Jack. 

Jack snorted and threw a piece of carrot at Spot. “Yeah, whatever, you dummy. See if I do anything nice for you ever again.” 

Spot winked at Katherine, picked the piece of carrot off of the afghan, and ate it. Then he grew serious again. “Thank you, though. I… It were a real classy move, what you two done for me. For us. So. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Katherine said, handing a plate to Specs. “It was our pleasure.”

Jack nodded and threw another carrot at Spot before turning to Specs. “So, Specsy, catch me up on you. What’s new?”

Specs finished his forkful of casserole and began to talk, letting Katherine slip into the bedroom mostly unnoticed.

“Race?” She said, closing the door gently behind her.

“Go away, Kath,” said a lump on the bed. 

“Are you sure?”

“No,” Race said, sighing and sitting up. Katherine paused, waiting for more, and then he said, “You can turn the light on, if you want.”

She did, and then she spread her skirts and sat next to him on the bed. “Want to talk?”

He slumped forward and covered his face in his hands. “I don’t got the words for this,” he said, his voice muffled by the heels of his hands.

“I don’t think anyone does,” she said softly, reaching to rub his back.

He leaned against her and shook his head, his close-cropped curls brushing her shoulder. “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “Spot’s the strong one, not me.” He dashed his arm angrily across his face, wiping away the unshed tears welling up in his eyes. “He’s actin’ so normal, an’ I… it ain’t even me what’s hurt, an’ I…” He gulped, and then said angrily, “Every time I look at him I wanna scream until I goes hoarse. I wanna go throttle the people what did this to him, I wanna take a knife ta their eyes, I wanna hunt ‘em down an’ break ‘em the way they did him an’ me. But I _can’t_ , Kath, I _can't_ , ‘cause there ain’t no one there ta fight!” He twisted to look her straight in the face. “How d'ya get over somethin’ that’s gonna stare ya in the face every day for the resta your life? How d'ya move past somethin’ when there ain’t no one ta get back at?” 

She shook her head dumbly.

“I ain’t a stranger ta hard knocks,” he continued with a bitter laugh. “Both me an’ Spot’s had more than our fair share of ‘em, too, I’d say." He sighed. "But they’s always been someone ta blame f’r all that stuff, ya know? So when someone soaks ya? Soak ‘em right back. Someone swipes your money? Track ‘em down an’ give ‘em what for.” He began worrying at the hem of his too-large shirt. “Even when the bullies is bigger—like Snyder an’ the bulls an’ your pops an’ the Delanceys an’ alla them—at least I could _see_ ‘em, ya know? An' that meant that maybe someday I could make ‘em pay. I might hafta wait f'r my chance, but someday I could make 'em pay. I _did_ make most of ‘em pay, too,” he said, a note of pride creeping into his voice. “An’ they paid good.” A sharp smile flitted across his face. “But this—Kath, they ain’t nobody _there_!”

He dragged his hand down his face and grimaced. “I know you an’ Jack an’ Davey worked real hard ta find someone ta hold responsible, some way ta make these crooks pay, somethin' ta get the politicians' attention so they'd hafta care an' make it so’s no one else’d ever hafta deal with this. An' I want ya ta know that I appreciate that. I do. But, Kath—everythin's still the same! Nothin’s _happened_!”

He snapped his head back up to look at her, and Katherine’s heart clenched at the hurt and hope warring in his wide eyes. “It hasn’t, has it?" His tone grew desperate. "D’you know somethin’ I don’t?” He scooted closer to her and grabbed her hands. “Is somethin’ happenin’, Kitty? You’s got connections, you moves in that world—is them fancy politicians doin’ somethin’ ta make those men pay? Is Spot…” he choked back a sob. “Is what happened ta him gonna matter? Is... is anything gonna change?”

Katherine looked at him helplessly. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I wish I did.” 

Race let out a cry of frustration and rammed his fist into the sagging mattress.

The two of them sat in silence for a minute, both staring at his clenched hand, both overwhelmed by how little they could do about any of this. About all of this. Katherine wondered if Race was looking down and thinking of Spot, of how Spot’s hand would cause the mattress to quiver, of how even just forming a fist had become a struggle for the former leader of Brooklyn. She wished she could take this weight from Race's shoulders, make things better, convince him that everything would be okay, but she couldn't. All she could do was cover his fist with her hand and pull him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, Race,” she said. “So, so sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ringing in the new year with some angst for you kiddos! <3 
> 
> Methanol targets the optic nerves and often causes blindness. Any and all damage is permanent. I didn't want to make Spot go blind, so I just left it at blurry vision. I figure he'll still be able to find a job with one weak hand and foggy sight, so please don't hunt me down for this.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I mess with everyone's emotions some more.

The weeks came and went. The sun rose and set. Newspapers were written, read, crumpled, and thrown away. Jack applied for art school. Katherine got her first out-of-town reporting assignment. Crutchie proposed to Rosie. Davey landed a summer job with the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society. Spot found work as a hopper feeder at a cotton manufacturer. And Race?

Race stumbled from one day to the next, watching everyone else move forward while he slept in late and stayed out later, chain-smoked cigar after cigar, and got drunk on cheap liquor and old memories. He was sloppy and slurred and bitter like the whiskey he knocked back in place of food, and he refused to let anyone near enough to help.

But on race days—oh, on those shining mornings, those Saturdays that dawned soft and golden, he was a force to be reckoned with. He understood every purr and whine of the engine, he understood choke valves and friction disks and band brakes, he understood pavement and dirt and gravel and grass. He understood all of it, and he knew exactly how to adjust and repair and reset when things went wrong. Cars broke and then you fixed them. Cars wore out and then you bought another. Cars were replaceable. Cars made sense.

And so, race after race, week after week, he sobered up and hefted yet another trophy into the air, posing for photos that captured his smile and hid the emptiness in his eyes. And as soon as the photo was taken, the new Race reemerged to swallow up the old, leaving Spot to face yet another week of fights and tears and vomit.

*

“You have to stop this,” Jack said, dragging Race aside after the latest post-victory photo call.

This race had been a cross-country affair that ended in Chicago, and both Jack and Katherine had managed to persuade their editors that a blow-by-blow account of the trip, as well as some man-about-town sketches and stories from Chicago, would make for a nice addition to the paper. The cotton industry was not as persuadable as the newspaper industry, though, and so Spot was still in the city, which meant that, for the first time in months, Jack had a chance to talk to Race when he was both sober and alone.

“Stop what?” Race said, twisting his arm out of Jack’s grip. “Winning? What, is the famous Jack Kelly jealous that I’s on top of my profession when he hasn’t been promoted in years?”

Jack clenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders, refusing to take the bait. “You go ahead an’ win as much as ya want, Race. You’s my friend—I wants ya ta do well.”

The anger in Race’s eyes flickered briefly and gave way to a sadness that Jack knew Race hadn’t wanted Jack to see. “Sure, Jack, whatever,” he said, turning to go back to the hustle and bustle of the racing team.

“No, not whatever,” Jack said, catching Race’s wrist. “I’s been bitin’ my tongue for months now, we all have—”

“Oh, so now you’s all talkin’ about me behind my back?” Race snapped, yanking away from Jack’s touch again.

Jack exhaled in frustration. “We’s your _friends_ , Racer, of course we been talkin’ about ya—you’s gone off tha rails, kid, I mean— _look_ at ya, you’s drunk in the middle of the day, skinny as hell, ain’t barely a civil word off that tongue of yours in weeks—”

“Thanks for the lecture, _Pops_ , but save it for someone who cares.”

Jack growled. “ _You_ care, Race, I know you do—hell, that’s why you’s been such a bastard lately. You care so much that ya don’t know what ta do with yourself, an’—”

“I said _save_ it!” Race lunged forward and shoved Jack in the chest, knocking his friend slightly backwards. The motion just underlined how right Jack was, though; even with the full weight of Race’s body behind the shove, the boy’s skinny arms barely affected the short but sturdy Jack.

Jack raised his hands in a pacifying gesture, but his voice was stern. “Race. Listen. You hafta stop this… this… well, alla _this_ ,” he said, waving at Race and the full bottle of champagne in Race’s hand. “You’s gonna drink yourself inta the grave mournin’ over… hell, over what? A dream life ya weren’t never promised? A man who’s doin’ just _fine_?”

Encouraged by the lost look on Race’s face, Jack took a step closer and lowered his hands. “Let us help ya, Anthony. Ya don’t hafta do this alone, okay? Me an’ Spot an’ Kath an’ Crutchie an’ Specs an’ Davey an’—well, hell, alla the boys—tell us how ta help ya an’ we’ll be there in a heartbeat. I swears it.”

Race’s lips quivered, and he pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. “I don’t know how, Jackie,” he said. “I don’t know what happens next.”

“Ya don’t have to,” Jack said softly, reaching for Race’s hands and relaxing slightly when Race didn’t immediately shy away. “We can figure this out together. One day at a time.”

Race nodded and fixed his gaze on his boots, which had gotten muddied during an emergency car repair job somewhere in Ohio.   

Jack held his breath as he clasped one of Race’s grease-stained hands and reached for the other. “Okay, then. Let’s start by puttin’ this somewhere else for now, alright?” Jack moved to prise the champagne bottle from Race’s grip, but at the touch of Jack’s warm fingers Race’s head snapped up and he jerked backwards.

“ _No_ ,” Race said, his bright blue eyes flashing cold and cruel. “Don’t you dare, Jack Kelly, don’t you _dare_. Ya don’t get ta act like ya have the answers ta this, ‘cause I know ya don’t. An’ ya know how I knows that? ‘Cause they _ain’t_ no answers. Ev’rythin’s just the same as before. Alla that shit you an’ Kath an’ Davey pulled with them pamphlets—what did that accomplish, huh?” He shook his head and curled his lip. “I’ll tell ya what, okay? It did nothin’ _._ Nothin’ at all.”

Race took a deep pull from the bottle and wiped his arm across his lips, backing farther away from Jack. “None of this means anythin’ at all, don’t you see? It don’t matter what _you_ do, an’ it don’t matter what _I_ do—no matter how many races I wins, no matter how many drawin’s ya publish, them rich folks is always gonna win an we’s always gonna lose. _Always_.” He choked and coughed on a too-large mouthful of champagne and let half of it dribble down his shirt.

As soon as he’d recovered his voice, he scoffed. “So tell me, Jackie-boy, when’s you gonna face facts? You’s a dreamer, I know, but someday even _you_ has gotta realize that they ain’t no point ta this. Not to _none_ of it,” he said, his breaths coming short and shaky. “An’ soon’s you realize that, you’s gonna crumble, too.” He laughed. “Look, chief, I’ll be straight with ya. They ain’t no point ta this, so I’s gonna do it my way: I’s gonna go’s fast as I can ‘til I can’t take it no more.” He took another swig of alcohol. “An’ if you ask me,” he added darkly, his legs beginning to jitter, “The sooner that is, the better.” He spat onto the scrubby grass in front of them and turned to go back to the gaggle of his team and his fans and the press and the cars, leaving Jack alone and utterly speechless.

*

“Race, c’mon, lemme help ya inta bed,” Spot said softly, bending down to drape one of Race’s arms over his shoulders and hoist Race off of the couch.

“Mmm,” Race mumbled, smacking Spot’s hand away.

“Hey now,” Spot said, rubbing Race’s back. “ ‘S me, kiddo.” He reached over again to help Race up, but Race only grunted and shoved Spot backwards.

“Gerrof,” he said, his eyes only half-open.

Spot frowned slightly. “Don’t be like that, Racer—you’ll be more comf’table in bed. Lemme ease ya on up, yeah?”

“I _said_ get _off_ ,” Race growled, slowly pushing himself up into a sitting position on the couch, knocking an empty beer bottle onto the floor as he did so.

Spot balled his right hand into a fist and tried to keep his voice steady. “Look, kid. I’m just tryin’ ta make sure ya gets a decent night’s sleep. Ya don’t hafta act like I’m ruinin’ your life.”

Race coughed and rubbed his eyes. “As if I needed your help with that. I’m doin’ a pretty good job of ruinin’ my life all by myself, thanks.”

“Yeah, you are,” Spot said, crossing his arms over his chest. “An’ I’m sick of watchin’ ya do it.”

“Don’t look, then,” Race said, fumbling by his feet for another bottle.

“An’ how d’ya expect me ta do that, huh?” Spot snapped. “Every night after work, just ‘fore I walks through the door here, I thinks ‘maybe my Racer’s back. Maybe he’s come home ta me.’ An’ every night I opens the door an’ you’s lyin’ here, smashed outta your damn mind.” He laughed bitterly and ran his shaking hand through his hair. “It’s kinda hard not ta look at a shitshow when it’s smack dab in the middle of your _life_ , Race.”

“Oh, so I’m a shitshow now?” Race slurred, leaning back onto the cushions.

“Right now?” Spot said, gesturing to Race’s stained clothes, the empty beer bottles scattered across the floor, the ashtray overflowing with cigar leavings. “Yeah. Yeah, you are. An’ ya knows it.”

“Well, maybe this shitshow oughta move outta your line a sight, then,” Race said, his voice rising. “So’s ya don’t hafta look at it no more.”

Spot sighed and bit his lip. “Yeah.”

“Yeah what?”

“Yeah, maybe ya oughta move out,” Spot said quietly, his eyes sad. “I been tryin’ so hard these last few months, Racer, but I realized that I can’t help ya unless ya wants ta change, an’ right now ya don’t. But,” he said, taking a deep breath, “ _I do_. What you’s been doin’, the way you’s been actin’—you ain’t the only one you’s hurtin’, ya know.” He shook his head and looked away. “Look, Race; I ain’t been happy ever since the drinkin’ started, an’… an’ even if you don’t wanna change, I do. Watchin’ you do this—‘s breakin’ my heart.” He stretched his left hand out to Race and then let it fall limply at his side, watching his own fingers tremble as tears welled in his eyes. “I… I can’t live like this no more. So.” He looked back up and met Race’s wide, blue eyes. “Yeah. Maybe ya oughta move out.”

Race swallowed hard and sat frozen on the couch, staring at Spot in horror. He blinked and tried to speak, but no words came.

Spot stood for a moment, letting the silence stretch, and then he rubbed the back of his neck and turned aside. “Well. I’m goin’ ta bed, then. ‘S late. G’night, Racer,” he said, voice steady.

Race watched him walk away, still unable to move or cry out or do anything but run through Spot’s words again and again. _Maybe ya oughta move out. Maybe ya oughta move out. Maybe ya oughta move out ya oughta move out ya oughta move…_

*

Several weeks later, Jack was working on his political cartoon for Friday when a warm, familiar voice called his name. “Jack Kelly, man of mystery! How’s my boy?”

“Miss Medda!” He exclaimed, sliding off his desk chair and running to embrace her. “Well, as I live and breathe, you are as beautiful as ever,” he said, pulling back and flashing the trademark Jack Kelly grin. “What brings you to the boring side of Manhattan? You’re a peacock among pigeons here,” he added, gesturing at the drably clothed illustrators scattered around the room.

“I’ve got a very important letter for you, honey,” she said, pulling a large white envelope out of her purse. “Straight from the White House,” she said, raising an eyebrow and tapping the envelope gently against her palm. “This isn’t a presidential pardon for something you’ve done that I don’t know about, is it?”

Jack laughed. “I’ll tell you if I ever do anything that bad,” he said. She gave him a look, and he rolled his eyes. “I _promise_.”

She smiled and handed him the letter. “Happy reading, sweetheart,” she said, turning to leave.

“Wait! Don’t you want to see what it says?”

“Oh, I got a pretty good hunch,” she said, batting her eyelashes. “Me an’ the President keep up a pretty regular correspondence.”

Jack blinked. “O…okay. Well. Um. Thanks, Miss Medda.”

She winked and gave him a wave as she walked away. “See you later, hon.”

Frowning, Jack rifled through his desk drawer for a letter opener. He slit it open smoothly— _quality stationery_ , he noted absently—and drew out a thick, creamy letter that, while typed, was clearly signed by the President himself, Mr. Theodore Roosevelt.

 

_Jack—_

_Medda tells me you’ve done well for yourself ever since your face-off with Pulitzer. Bully for you, boy. I knew you’d make it. I’m writing to you care of her because the idea of sending a letter to_ The World _makes me spit nails. Can’t stand that rag. The only good thing it’s ever done was hire you. But I digress._

 _The point is that Medda sent me copies of some of your leaflets on adulterated food and drink. Impressive work from you and that lady reporter. (I noticed her last name is still Plumber—nothing doing there, eh? Shame.) Anyway, I can assure you that your work has my full attention and support. You may have heard of Mr. Wiley’s Poison Squad, where brave young men are voluntarily ingesting food additives and preservatives so as to allow us to find out how these stuffs affect the human body. As a result of these studies, Mr. Wiley, the Chief Chemist of the Bureau of Chemistry, has been pushing for stricter food and drug regulation for a while now. However, no matter how interesting Mr. Wiley’s results are, they are occurring in a vacuum, to voluntary participants. Your illustrations and interviews, though—they have a poignant, personal heft that his work does not. And believe me, Jack, that personal element is critical; the political is_ always _personal._

_I can’t give you specifics yet, but Congress is working on something that ought to make both you and Mr. Wiley very happy. I promise you that I am throwing my weight behind this measure and will sign it as soon as it crosses my desk._

_Your pamphlets pled an eloquent case in front of some unbelievably stubborn lawmakers. You should be very proud._

_Give my best to your friends._

_Sincerely,_

Theodore Roosevelt

_President of the United States of America_

 

Jack’s eyes bugged out of his head as he slipped the page back into the envelope and sank down into his desk chair. He took a moment to let the dizziness subside and the butterflies fade before grabbing his cap and racing out of the building into the warm May air. The work day was almost over, anyway—he’d finish that cartoon tomorrow.

“Race! Spot!” He yelled, bursting through the door of the tiny tenement apartment. “Listen to this!”

The two young men looked up from the dinner table and paused, forks halfway to their mouths. Race was still gaunt, but he was clean-shaven, he was wearing clothes that smelled of engine oil rather than alcohol, and the bottles that Jack had grown accustomed to seeing scattered on the floor were nowhere to be found.

“Well?” Spot said. “Spit it out, man. You’s interruptin’ our dinner, in case ya hadn’t noticed.”

“Ya ain’t gonna believe it, boys, ya ain’t gonna believe it!” Jack slapped one hand down on the table and used the other to wave the large envelope under his friends' noses. “I’s read it already and _I_ can’t hardly believe it!”

“Geez, Jackie,” Race said, trying not to smile, “Ya gots ta tell us what it is already; if ya don’t, then we ain’t never gonna get a chance ta not believe it.”

Jack stopped dancing about and set his shoulders back, imitating the way the important men at the office stood when making announcements. He cleared his throat and slid the single sheet out of the envelope, snapped it to hear the paper crackle, and began to read. As he did so, Spot’s jaw dropped ever-further and Race’s face grew ever-whiter. Jack finished reading with a triumphant, “ ‘Sincerely, Theodore Roosevelt, _President_ of the United States of America,'” and slammed the page on the table. “Whad’ya think of _that_ , boys?”

“You’s shittin’ me,” Spot said. “He ain’t never written you all that.”

Jack shoved the paper across to Spot. “See for yourself.”

Spot picked it up warily and held it an inch away from his face. He stared at the signature for a few moments and then laid it back down with quivering fingers. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a low whistle. “Teddy fuckin’ Roosevelt. Holy hell.”

“Race?” Jack said, turning to his friend. “You’s… you’s awful quiet.”

Race swallowed hard and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Jack squatted down next to his friend and frowned. “I thought ya’d be happy about this,” he said, confused. “I thought it’d help, knowin’ that your story made a difference, that… that what happened ta you an’ Spot, it were awful, but what ya went through… ‘s gonna help other people.” He laid a hand on Race’s thigh and squeezed gently. “Should I not have told ya?”

“No, I'm glad ya did, it's great news, it's just... I just… I feel so empty,” Race said, his voice low. He rubbed his forehead and stared at the food that was growing cold on his plate. “Why, Jack?” His voice took on an anguished tone. “Why don’t I feel nothin’?” He gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles went white and shifted in his chair. “This is all I’ve been wantin’ for months, but…”

Race shook his head and restarted. “I thought that if what happened ta us —ta _Spot_ — if that made things better for someone else, ya know, then… then it’d all be worth it,” he said, stumbling over his words, “But— but that’s happened now, an’ it just…” He bit his lower lip. “It ain’t helpin’ at all. I thought it would,” he said desperately, raising his head to meet Spot’s eyes. “I really did, but— I mean, I still don’t feel like… like….” He squeezed his eyes shut. “It don’t change any of what’s happened! The people who did this still ain’t gonna pay, Spot’s hand is always gonna be shaky, my heart’s gonna be in my mouth every time anyone I cares about downs a bottle of beer, an’… Oh, _Spot_ ,” he said with a sob, “It’s never gonna _change_!”

Jack brushed his nose and fidgeted slightly, unsure of how to respond, but Spot reached across the table to clasp Race’s hand. He slid from his seat and moved to stand behind Race, resting his head on Race’s shoulder and stroking Race’s hand with a steady thumb. “Shh, Anthony,” he said quietly, his voice husky. “One day at a time, remember? One day at a time.”

Race nodded, but his eyes were still closed. Jack’s eyes flicked from Race to Spot as Spot murmured and hummed, rubbing circles on Race’s back. Jack knew that he was intruding on a private moment, but moving now would be worse.

“Anthony Higgins,” Spot said. “We’s gonna be fine, you an’ me. An’ this law—no, it ain’t gonna change what happened ta us, an' it ain't gonna fix my hand or my eyes, but it’s gonna make a helluva lot of difference ta folks all over the country from here on out. An’ that’s important. That matters.” He nuzzled Race’s cheek. “An’ yeah, what we went through ain’t never gonna be right, an’ those crooks ain’t never gonna pay, an’ I… well, I hate that.” He laughed gently. “But listen, kid. Knowin’ that you an’ me made things better? Knowin’ that we changed the world?” He moved his hand from Race’s back to comb his fingers through Race’s golden curls. “It’s gonna help me sleep easier at night. An’ maybe someday it’ll help you sleep easier, too.”

Spot smiled sadly and closed his dark eyes, dropping his voice even lower. “Sometimes that’s the best we get, Anthony. Sometimes that’s all we can do. Sometimes we hafta live with tragedy an’ recover from there.”

Race shuddered and sighed, leaning his head against Spot’s. “Yeah,” he said, his voice still a little shaky. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got Spot’s job from [here](https://books.google.com/books?id=kKUeAQAAIAAJ&pg=PA146&lpg=PA146&dq=dyehouse+cotton+goods+finishing&source=bl&ots=iqvzSJm3H7&sig=YW3Ntw-N7c6CxF1c2Mxxt88CX3M&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwiM--vfzb3YAhVn64MKHU2lCHEQ6AEITzAJ#v=onepage&q=dyehouse%20cotton%20goods%20finishing&f=false) (scroll down one page to p. 147).
> 
> Teddy Roosevelt was President from 1901-1909.
> 
> Dr. Harvey Wiley and his Poison Squad were both very real. Wiley’s work led to the June 30, 1906 passage of the United States’ first national food and drug regulatory law, which was known as both the Wiley Act and the Pure Food and Drug Act of 1906. This law was the foundation for the current-day Food and Drug Administration.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed! <3


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